From Fearful to Fearsome
by be-nice-to-nerds
Summary: Johanna Mason has, against all odds, just been Reaped for the Sixty Ninth Annual Hunger Games. Trouble is, she's not the only contender, and far from the most apparent one to win. So how is a girl to get out alive? By duping everyone else, of course.
1. Chapter 1

**And I thought that after writing No One Left Johanna Mason would get out of my head and leave me alone. Nope, no such thing, and now I'm off with the crazy idea of writing her Games, too. I'm posting now, although there isn't as much done in advance as I would like, to make sure this beats Mockingjay and any backstory changes that may be found there by a few weeks. And I guess that's it from me; enjoy.**

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* * *

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It isn't the snoring that wakes me up, though it's the first thing I'm aware of once I blink my way to consciousness; a symphony of snores from an orchestra of snorers. It's only just getting light outside, but that little light is enough to let me see around the dormitory perfectly well. Good night vision is a key skill to develop here, especially if you like getting up early like I do.

I've been here two years. Not very long, compared to some of the others – poor Minty's been here since she was three, and she's only half a year younger than me. But I'm not the new girl anymore either. There've been at least three more additions to the community centre since Vince and I arrived here when I was thirteen and he was ten. At least three, because frankly I wasn't in the mood for counting people then, and I doubt my cousin was either.

Despite the fact that it's light outside and there's no chance of getting any more sleep, not with today being the day it is, I lie in bed for a while longer. Ears listening to the snoring; eyes open, staring at the bunk above me. The pale blue mattress – almost grey in this poor light - on wooden slats, engraved with years of graffiti from previous owners. My name sits proudly among them – carving your mark into the bed is a District Seven Community Centre tradition. Who knows, that piece of wood could be worth a lot of money someday. But probably not.

Finally I get sick of lying in bed and sit up slowly. Most of the others are heavy sleepers – it's another thing you learn fast if you want to get any decent sleep here – but we had a new girl move in a month ago and she hasn't learned to sleep through anything yet like the rest of us can. Luckily I know which floorboards creak and which don't, so I manage to get dressed with relatively little noise.

There's a groan and Minty sticks her blonde head over from the bunk above mine.

"It's too early Johanna," she says sleepily, stretching her arms so they hit the ceiling. "Go back to bed, like the rest of us sane people."

I shrug and pull my other sock on. "I know you can't sleep anyway, so stop complaining just because some of us can actually function before noon."

"How did you – never mind. And I don't mind people functioning before noon. It's when they routinely get up at obscenely early hours of the morning that they drive me crazy."

"I've shared a bunk with you for two years," I tell her, smiling slightly. "I know how you think. Anyway, this isn't obscenely early. At least there's light outside. Obscenely early is two o'clock in the morning when you haven't gone to bed yet. And you wonder why you can never get up in the mornings."

"No, that's obscenely late. It can't be early if you haven't gone to sleep yet. Speaking of sleep, I'm going back to bed before the new girl wakes up and has a spaz at us."

"Suit yourself. I'm going downstairs. See you at the Reaping, lazy."

"G'night Johanna," says Minty, smirking slightly as I roll my eyes, before lying back down and rolling over to face the wall.

She'll be dead to the world for a few more hours but won't get to sleep till twelve, as she would if she had a choice – our Reaping's at eleven thirty so Miss Woodshall will wake her up round ten. That's if the new girl doesn't wake her up by making ridiculously loud noises as she heads downstairs, of course. I was new once, but I'm sure I was never that bad.

Another good thing about getting up early is that there's barely anyone else around, which means that I don't have to wait for the showers. I'm halfway downstairs when I figure I might as well grab one now, so I double back into the dorm to grab my towel. Minty is already snoring softly, dead to the world.

The water is hot – another benefit of showering in the morning. In the evening the rush of people means that only the lucky few get hot water. The rest of us have to make do with cold showers or morning ones. Since I'm almost always one of the first ones up, it's not really much of a question.

Afterwards I hang my towel up to dry on the racks in the corridor and head back downstairs. Maybe I'm the first one up. I usually am, but I doubt any of our three twelve year olds can sleep today. No one ever can on their first Reaping.

As predicted, there are already people in the kitchen. Two of them, both shorter than I am. The smaller, facing me, has a head of bright red hair and blue eyes, with a face that has more freckles than actual skin – Otis, my cousin's best friend. The other is sitting opposite him at the table, so only the black-haired back of his head is showing, but there's only one person it could be. Even from behind, I can recognise my cousin from miles away.

"Morning Johanna," Otis says as he sees me come down. His mouth opens in a yawn – Otis is another of those who would sleep till noon if he had his way, but somehow never manages to.

Vince spins round in his seat, mouth settled in his trademark carefree grin.

"Hey, Jo. Surprised you weren't in here first."

I gesture at my still-wet hair. "I went to grab a shower before all the hot water gets used up in the stampede this evening. You should too, because I'm not listening to your complaints about water freezing on you again."

"Nah, I'll get one in the evening. Unlimited electricity today, remember? It's a day of celebration."

Vince is probably the only person in one of us real Districts who can say that phrase without any apparent sarcasm. Does he mean it, though? Probably not. My cousin's been through exactly what I have – I doubt he can be so truly sincere towards people.

Otis, who hasn't known Vince for as long as I have, raises his eyebrows in the usual response to my cousin's anti-sarcasm. Then he shrugs, obviously chalking it down to his general Vince-ness.

"I might take one later," he says. "Not this early, though. I'll wait till a few more people are out of bed first."

"You do know people will be more likely to walk in on you, right?" I ask him.

Otis shrugs. "No biggie. Anyway, there's this thing called a lock, Johanna. You may have heard of it."

I ignore his sarcastic tone. In a battle of words, I could out-sarcasm him any day.

"They never work properly. Anyway, New Girl will be sure to walk in on you."

Technically, we have a boys' bathroom and a girls' bathroom. In reality, everyone just uses whichever one's free. This combined with the faulty locks can lead to a lot of awkward moments, especially with us teenagers. You get used to it. Eventually.

Vince's expression stays mostly the same, but I can detect a hint of disapproval as he says, "Do you even know her real name?"

"No. Why should I know the name of a spoiled brat merchant girl who thinks she's better than us all just because of the colour of her hair? How I'd love to teach that Capitol-hugger a lesson."

I could, too. She might be a Centre girl now and work in the forest with the rest of us, but I've been swinging axes around since I was younger than Vince. I could easily take her in a fight.

"Hey!" Otis says, "I'm merchant class too, you know. So's Minty, and isn't she like your best friend?"

"Yeah, but that's different."

"How?"

"You've been here for years. Minty's been here since she was a toddler. She has Merchant parents, but has grown up as a Centre kid. You two don't go around proclaiming you're better than everyone."

Otis rolls his eyes. "Yeah, because you really don't do that either."

"Of course I don't. I'm not that arrogant."

"No, you're just subtler about it. You forest folk think you're better than we are just 'cause you have dark hair and are poorer than us townies. Newsflash: being poor isn't something to be proud of."

I don't know why, but something in his tone makes me angry. "Being a miser and flaunting your wealth isn't something to be proud of, either."

Otis glares at me. "My parents never did that."

"I bet you wish they had, though. Then they wouldn't be dead."

Otis' already pale face goes a few shades paler, making his freckles stand out clearly against his skin. His hands, spread out across the tabletop, clench into fists.

"Johanna…" starts Vince. I ignore him.

"Oh, is poor little Otis upset? Sad about his poor dead parents? What a pity-"

Otis rises to his feet, hands still clenched. "Shut up! Just shut up! What is it with you? You act all perfectly normal, then bang! It's like you've gone completely mental! Why don't you ever think before you speak? You know what? I hope you get picked today; then I'll never have to see you again!"

He climbs over the bench he'd been sitting on. "I'm going to take a shower. See you later, Vince."

After Otis leaves, Vince looks at me, face completely transformed by the absence of his almost permanent grin. It's on moments like these that you can see how we're related – we share the same dark hair and olive skin, the same facial structure - even the same physical structure, if I'd been born a boy or him a girl. Other than our opposing standard facial expressions, only our eyes are different, and as my brown look into his green I feel the rage draining away from me.

"Why?" Vince asks me, sighing. "Why do you always feel the urge to provoke people?"

"Why are you so cheerful all the time?"

"Why not? And stop changing the subject."

"Exactly – why not? And stop lecturing me – I'm supposed to be the older one, remember?"

A smile returns to Vince's face, making him look almost normal again. It quickly disappears though, making me feel a pang of guilt. It's not often Vince loses that smile, and he somehow looks naked without it.

"I don't get it. You really hurt Otis, you know. You did it deliberately. This mean streak of yours is hurting you as much as it's hurting other people. I wish I could at least know why."

How can I tell him when I don't know myself? All I know is that every so often rage at the unfairness of it all builds up in me, and I want to hurt something, anyone, to make the pain go away. But Vince wouldn't understand it. We both went through the same experiences, yet he's Vincent and I'm Johanna, and the two of them are polar opposites.

"Vince, you know I'd tell you if I knew. But I don't. Anyway, I really am sorry about Otis. I know he's your friend."

"So you care about me, not him," Vince starts, before he sighs. "I'll tell him anyway. You're stressed about the Reaping, we all are. He is the most, I think. Normally he would have reacted differently too. But after his brother…"

And there's the normal Vince coming back, always ready to see the best in people, even me. On impulse, I reach across and hug him.

"What did you that for?"

"I'm your cousin, remember? We look out for each other. It is your first Reaping, after all."

He smiles back at me, completely back to old Vince, barriers back up but still lowered slightly in the way they always are for me.

"It this real? The great Johanna Mason worrying?" He crosses over to the window and look outside with exaggerated motions. "Nope, no pigs flying. Everything seems fine and dandy, too; no fireballs signalling the end of the world."

I laugh. "Shut up, Vince."

'Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

"It better be."

"You know, that threatening look would work a lot better if I didn't know you," Vince says. "You don't need to worry about me – I only have one slip in the Reaping ball. Worry about yourself."

He probably has a point. Us Centre kids don't need Tesserae, so Vince will have the minimum number of slips in for all his life. I moved here when I was thirteen, after two years of taking three lots of Tesserae – one for Vince, one for me, one for my now-dead aunt Aspen. Now I have ten slips – ten out of many, maybe, but still ten times what Vince has.

"I'll be fine, little cousin," I say though. Vince may be the closest person to me but he's still only twelve, and I'm still almost his older sister. Some things stay firmly in my head. "If I've survived so far, I'll be sure to survive this one."

Vince grins cheekily at me. "Famous last words."

* * *

"…And so out of the Ashes of what remained of North America rose Panem, our Glorious State…"

I groan and tune out our Mayor's words, just as I've done for every Reaping I can remember. Before I turned twelve there wasn't room for me in the Square so we got to watch on big TV screens which made it easier to ignore the speeches, but now us potential tributes have to stand in the Square itself. Here, as Mrs Woodshall doesn't hesitate to remind us, 'the eyes of the nation are on us'.

I guess I can understand why she's strict on this – if the Peacekeepers think the children from the Community Centre aren't behaving well enough they can fire Mrs Woodshall and put in a proper, Capitol-trained Community Mistress. That would be very, very bad. We'd have to live under the strict conditions most of the other Community Centres have. Woodshall has her faults – many of them – but she's District Seven through and through and infinitely preferable to any of the Capitol-drones we'd get sent.

Minty nudges me. "Johanna, at least try to look like you're paying attention. I really don't want a lecture when we get home, in the time that we should be celebrating everyone getting through safe and sound."

"I don't know – wouldn't you rather New Girl got picked? Then she wouldn't annoy us anymore."

"Johanna! That's a horrible thing to say!" Minty sounds suitably shocked – too suitably shocked. Then she can't hold a straight face anymore and bursts out into giggles.

From the sixteen year old section in front of us, New Girl turns around, flicking straight blonde hair over her shoulder in an obviously practised movement, and glares at us. I give her a rude gesture in return.

"Yep, let's all pray she gets picked," Minty says, only half joking.

"Now, now, Minty, be quiet," I say. "We don't want to miss this scintillating lecture, do we?"

"Because that wasn't sarcastic at all…"

I'd go to retaliate but at that moment Mayor launches into his routine final few minutes and music begins to play.

If there's one good thing about our mayor, it's that at least he mostly varies his speeches. They're always spoken so reverently you can practically hear the capital letters on half the words and they always end with an invitation to sing the national anthem, but at least there's some variety. We had to watch a speech from District Nine in school a few years back and it was unbelievably boring.

I mouth along to the national anthem, not singing the actual words but a far more insulting version I made up after Peacekeepers tortured my father to death and did who knows what to my mother – she never bothered to tell us who the still-born girl she died delivering belonged to. I was nine then; the final version might have been made three years later after my older brother was killed because he owed the wrong people money. The language seems far too advanced for it to have been solely invented by a nine year old.

When the anthem is over Major introduces the Victors of District Seven. We've had five in total, and surprisingly all of them are still alive. The oldest is Olga Stevens, who hobbles in the lead across the stage. She's retired from mentoring now, leaving the four who remain to do most of the work.

Following her is Bastin something – no one knows his last name anymore – who acts as more of a District Seven leader than Major does. Then there's Blight, our resident drunkard; Willow, who managed to lace her Arena with poison and cry while everyone else died around her; and the ironically named red-headed Blue. These latter two are going to be mentoring this year. No other District can boast such an eclectic collection of Victors.

After the Victors are all assembled on stage, our new Capitol escort is introduced as Epoch Marianas.

"Welcome to the Sixty Ninth annual Hunger Games, yada yada yada," he says, fiery skin contrasting with long royal blue hair.

I immediately dislike him. Not only because he's Capitol – though really, that is a good enough reason for hate – but also due to the expression of bored disdain on his face. It's obvious he doesn't want to be here – well neither do we, but at least we're not spoiled brats determined to be unenthusiastic simply because we had to settle for second best – or Seventh.

"I'm privileged to be here in Seventh Heaven…"

Because that really isn't an overused pun at all.

He goes on for a bit longer, mixing up words, ignoring half of them and generally making the whole District hate him.

"We know this isn't great, but at can you at least go to the effort of making it sound dignified?" Minty mutters next to me. "This isn't a joke."

Finally the excruciating speech comes to an end. Epoch looks around for what to do next, then walks over to where a big glass bowl stands on a pink pillar.

"Ladies first, and may the odds be ever in your favour. Umm…"

He pulls a piece of paper out of the Reaping Jar and reads it to himself, lips moving silently.

"This year's female tribute for District Seven is… Johanna Mason?"

Oh, _shit_.

Whatever I did in a previous life, it must have been really, really bad.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't know why I start crying.

My feet move forward before I'm conscious that it's my name that's just been called out, and I make my way slowly through the crowd up to the stage. In my mind, a sort of panicked chant repeats itself over and over.

Tears stream down my face for no apparent reason. I haven't cried for years, so why am I starting now? I'm really not a crying person.

But the tears drop on, down and down my face in some kind of twisted waterfall. This is totally going to send the wrong image to anyone who might want to sponsor me. No one wants a weakling. I've just completely screwed up any hope I have of getting out alive, and funnily enough I don't seem to care.

When I reach the stage Marianas shakes my hand, nose crinkling in disgust for my weakness, then heads over to the other Reaping Ball.

"You all know the routine, yada yada, male tribute is Rowan Quincy," He says, dipping a hand in and plucking the first bit of paper he can see off the top of the pile.

An unfamiliar boy makes his way over to the stage. He's coming from the same general area as me, maybe slightly closer to the stage, but I don't recognise him at all. Vince probably would, but not me. Of course, I might vaguely know him once I get a clearer look. My eyes are all fogged up with tears and the world is out of focus.

"Everyone, let's have a round of applause for District Seven's latest tributes," Epoch Marianas says, unenthusiastic as ever.

Perhaps then it's not surprising that he receives an unenthusiastic clap in response. No District – other than the Career Capitol Clones – is ever particularly enthusiastic, but our horrible new escort seems to be the last straw for District Seven. Only a handful of people clap properly, and then a yell comes from somewhere in the crowd.

"What's the magic word?"

The Peacekeepers all start to rise and head towards a section in the crowd – suspiciously close to where I was standing, I notice, somewhat detached. Before they can get there a huge round of clapping and cheering comes up.

"Yay to our new tributes!" shouts someone from the opposite side of the square. The Peacekeepers head in that direction instead and then a whistle erupts from the back of the crowd.

"Yeah!"

"Go the new mincemeat!"

"Woo hoo!"

"Thanks for saving us from overpopulation!"

"May the odds actually be nice for once!"

And so on, all sarcastic comments or deliberately over-enthusiastic cheering. They still continue as we're lead off the stage, and even after they shut the doors of our Justice Building behind us I can still hear the echoes of the crowd.

I don't know what has brought this on, but it's probably Marianas. If he even bothered to show the slightest attempt of sincerity, if he didn't act like this was all some kind of big joke, maybe this would be a normal Reaping. But he didn't and so it isn't.

Part of me is enjoying the spectacle, but I'd enjoy it far more if it wasn't my imminent death they were supposedly cheering.

As the Peacekeepers shove me into a room and tell me to wait for visitors, the tears still stream down my face. It's only once I am hidden away by myself that I can manage to pull myself together.

* * *

It's not long before I get my first set of visitors. Mrs Woodshall comes in, leading most of the rest of the community centre. There are a few very obvious people missing though.

"Where's Vince?" My voice comes out harsher than it usually would to our Community Mistress, but I'm far past caring.

"He's waiting outside. I thought you two might want privacy."

"I take it that's where Minty is, too?" I say, grateful to Woodshall but not showing it.

"Yes. I thought that you'd only want to see the people you're closest to privately. It gives you more time with them – you all get the same time to say farewell to people and the time with them depends on how many groups come in at once."

Interesting information which I totally didn't need. Or care about. That's Mrs Woodshall – when she gets stressed, she explains things, ignoring the fact that most of us don't give a Snow about it.

"I really wanted to know that," I tell her sarcastically seconds after thinking it. Then immediately regret it – this will be the last time I see her. And although I don't really care about anyone other than Vince, and maybe Minty, Woodshall's been kind enough in her own way and fed me for the past few years. It'd be a shame to leave on a low note.

Maybe she can see this on my face, though I doubt it. Anyway, Mrs Woodshall pulls me into a hug. This is probably the first time she's hugged me, and I'm happy to leave it that way. She's my caretaker, not my mother.

But because this is the last time I'll ever see her, I hug her back. Best to leave on a high note, after all.

"Farewell Johanna," she says once I pull away. "It's been a pleasure teaching you for these past few years."

Sure it has, I think. Most people don't like me, and I'm fine with that – the feeling's mutual. I'd be very surprised if I'd really been a pleasure to have in the house.

"Thanks," I respond, not caring if sarcasm leaks in or not but making an effort to keep it out for once.

"Good luck," Mrs Woodshall adds before leaving.

The other Centre kids take their turns with me, each giving me a hug or a handshake and some kind of reassurance. Some of the younger ones burst into tears. A boy about nine or ten is especially affected. I dimly remember that he's already had someone he'd known entered into the Games a few years ago. Needless to say, she didn't make it.

New Girl is one of the last ones to leave, and she has more to say than some of the others.

"Look, Mason, I don't know what I've ever done to offend you."

She must see me opening my mouth, adds: "And I don't really want to get into an argument about it now. But I've seen you at work, and if you can channel anger like that you're in for a fighting chance. I don't like you, and I'm guessing the feeling's mutual, but I don't hate you enough to want you to die. So good luck."

This is probably the most she's ever said to me at once. Good for her.

"I don't like you either," I tell her. "I don't think I ever will. But I'll try to stay alive. Just remember that it won't be for you."

Probably a bit too harsh, but it's honest. Just because it's likely to be the last time I see her doesn't mean I'll go all sentimental on her, or change my mind about liking her. I hate New Girl, and that's the way it'll always be. I may respect her a bit more now, but that's all it will ever be.

She nods and exits, leaving me with one other person in the room. Otis. Who's still mad at me after this morning. Oh, joy.

"Look, Johanna, I'm sorry…" he starts.

"I don't want to hear it," I snap back. "You said what you said, it turned out to be right. No reason to be sorry now that I actually am picked. If I hadn't been you wouldn't have apologised, so why are you now?"

"I am making an effort," Otis says, ears beginning to go red as his hair. "At least give me the benefit of not eternally blaming myself for your death."

So he doesn't think I have a chance. I ignore that, though, in favour of attacking the rest of his words.

"So this is what it's about. You want an acceptance of your apology so that you don't have to feel like you doomed me to death. Well guess what – you're not getting one."

He starts to speak and I hold me hand out, gesturing for silence.

"No, let me finish. My name getting drawn out of that ball wasn't your fault. At all. It would have happened whether you'd said that or not. But if it hadn't happened, you wouldn't be apologising. There's nothing wrong with insulting me as long is it stays just that. But once that wish becomes reality – that's when you start to feel guilty.

"So no. I'm not accepting your apology, because it isn't to me. It's just an attempt to make yourself feel happier. I won't make it that easy for you; that's not how life works. If you really want to apologise, do it to Vince. I'm sure he'll thank you when he's watching his only living relative die in the Arena."

Harsh, maybe, but true. Better a hard truth than a soft lie.

"Fine," Otis says. "If that's how it's going to be, then fine. Good luck. You'll need it. And I really didn't mean it when I said you should die."

I'd tell him not to say things he doesn't mean, but that would be hypocritical. I do, all the time. I can just face the consequences better than Otis can. But he'll learn in time. Maybe one of the reasons we don't get along is that we're too similar.

He holds out his hand and I shake it. When he's almost to the door, I call out to him.

He turns around: "Yeah?"

"Look after Vince for me, will you?"

A ghost of a smile. A nod.

"I will."

Then he's gone, leaving me alone to await the next guest.

* * *

Minty comes rushing frantically into the room as soon as the door opens.

"Hi," I say wryly as she skids to a halt in front of me, tears thankfully under control.

"Hi? Hi! Johanna, is that all you can say? You're about to go fight to your death and all you have to say is hi? You really are insane, aren't you?"

"Well at least I get up at normal hours."

Minty half-laughs. "No, you don't. Stop deluding yourself."

"No, you're the one deluding herself, not me."

Even as my mouth automatically forms the next words to counter her banter, my brain is horrified. I'm heading to the Hunger Games, and this is all we can talk about?

Minty seems to have similar thoughts since she cuts the debate off. "That is such a brilliant plan you had."

Plan? That's news to me. Since when do I have a plan? But Minty thinks I have one, and some instinct tells me it would be really stupid to let her find out I don't.

"You've seen it already? I hope it isn't that transparent then," I say instead, hoping I sound convincing.

"No, don't worry," she replies. "I only picked it up because I know you. You're not that crying snivelling baby you were on stage. But anybody who doesn't know you thinks you are, and then you can surprise them all in the Arena. How did you think of it in the first place?"

The plan falls into place. Minty is a genius. Really, she is. Even if she is under the impression that it was my idea. It's still genius. Of course, her respect for me will fall down several notches if I admitted that up till now I haven't had a clue what I've been doing. So I don't.

"It just… came to me. In the rush after I was Reaped. You just think so clearly then," I lie.

"Yeah, I guess it'd be weird like that. Anyway, Johanna, I don't have much time before they kick me out. Stupid Peacekeepers."

I smile inwardly. Typical Minty, always finding someone else to blame. A scapegoat, I think the word is.

"So…yeah. This is awkward, isn't it?" she continues.

"Only a bit," I tell her, lips curving upwards despite all odds.

"Thanks Johanna, really helping here."

"You're welcome." We're silent for a bit, and then, conscious of the time ticking past, I say, "Well this is goodbye, I guess."

Minty pulls me into a hug. "I'll be seeing you in a few weeks, Johanna. Come back from those Games, or I will personally kick your butt."

"I'll do my best. But just in case I don't make it, it was nice knowing you."

"You too."

And that's the last I see of my friend Minty.

* * *

I've never been happier to see Vince before in my life. Never happier, and never sadder either. With everyone else I didn't have an organised last meeting, didn't even know that it would be the last time I'd see any of them. I haven't decided which way's better, yet.

He's been masking his emotions behind the usual cheerful mask, I can tell. And not doing too bad a job of it, either. But I know Vince better than I know anyone else in the world, and I can see the cracks in his veneer.

Perhaps predictably, he doesn't keep the mask on long. Once the door clicks shut behind him, Vince throws himself into my arms. I embrace him back, tears miraculously not starting over again.

Eventually he pulls away, a touch shamefaced at letting down his barriers so completely. Sometimes I marvel at how Vince has handled what's happened to us. At how he manages to be so cheerful all the time. Times like this, when it's just the two of us, I realise that Vince is as scarred as I am. He just does a better job of hiding it, mostly.

Now I realise just how young my cousin is. The three years between the two of us never really seemed like much, not when you're as close as we are. But those three years are also a gap. He's only twelve now. He was only six when my father was killed, only four when his was. Only ten when his mother died in the forests, leaving only the two of us to fend together.

If my newfound plan doesn't work – and face it, it probably won't – then he'll be the sole survivor of our family at age twelve. And he realises this just as much as I do. Maybe more, since he's the one dealing with all this, while I end up taking the easy way out.

Poor Vince. I really don't envy him.

"You're going to come back, right?" he asks me after a while with neither of us saying anything. My cousin sounds so young now, not like the equal I'm so used to treating him as.

I don't know this Vince. He's a stranger to me. Only, I do know him. His barriers extend even to me, other than a few rare times when they are down. They're such complete barriers that even I don't know if they're conscious or not.

"I'll try," I tell him, as sincerely as I can.

"No, seriously. You're going to come back. You're not going to turn into that person you were on the stage today. Because I know you, Jo, and that can't be the person you'll die as."

It's a sign of how close we are that Vince is the only person who could see through me and tell I wasn't faking. There's no point lying to him, because he won't believe me anyway. And I never lie to Vince. To everyone else, but not to him.

"I don't know what came over me," I say. "But I've got it under control now, don't worry. Minty inadvertently gave me a plan."

"Plan?" I can tell my cousin is relieved.

"Yep. I'll act as pathetic as I did earlier to make everyone underestimate me. Then try to fight when there aren't that many people left."

"Try? Jo, the people left in the Arena then are going to be the hardest to kill."

"I know," I reply, wondering at life when a twelve year old is coldly analysing how to kill people. "But I should have surprise on my side, and you know I'm a decent fighter."

"That you are. Just…" he hesitates, and I can see his vulnerability. "Johanna, I don't want to be the last one in our family left alive."

"I'll do my best."

"No, that's not enough," he says urgently, a few tears dripping down his face. "You have to promise to come back alive."

No one else did.

That silent message passes between us, and I nod.

"I promise."

Hoping desperately I can keep it, finding new resolve.

Vince gives me one last, long hug. Then he wipes his tears away and heads out into the world with a smile on his face, the old mask firmly in place.


	3. Chapter 3

**I know lots of people didn't like Mockingjay, but personally I loved it. No spoilers in here, for obvious reasons. **

**Thanks to everyone for reading, and now that I'm out of exams for a bit maybe updates will be a bit quicker. Oh, and if anyone's reading Caisha's fic as well – yes, the reference was intentional.**

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* * *

**

I'm crying again by the time I'm escorted out of the meeting room and onto the train platform. There had been a mirror in the room, and so I'd had time to work to build up a suitable image of pathetic hopelessness. Here's to hoping I'm a good actor.

Almost as if it's been planned, my District Partner strides next to me, head held tall. I still haven't managed to get a decent look at him, but he's typical District Seven build – tall, lanky, probably with hidden muscles depending on what social class he comes from.

Placed beside me – tall in comparison to most other Districts but nothing out of the District Seven norm and hunched over now to emphasise weakness, dark brown hair untied and slightly obscuring my face – the contrast is amazing. Even is he doesn't look much stronger than I do, the difference in attitudes and postures helps to highlight how pathetic I am.

It takes us longer to go the short distance to the train than expected, what with Capitol reporters dying to get a glimpse of the two new pieces of meat. Oh, sorry, tributes. Wouldn't want it to sound like we're being sent to our deaths or anything.

It's only been a few hours, and the plan is undoubtedly a good one, better than anything I could come up with now, but I already start to realise the limitations of my façade. From now on, all sarcastic comments must be strictly internal. Which kind of ruins their impact.

Once we're on the train the doors slam shut behind us almost instantly and the speed of its departure almost knocks me into my District Partner, who would also be knocked over if he had anywhere to fall. As is, he staggers a step backwards and promptly backs into a wall.

"Ouch," he mutters once we've regained our balance and rubs the back of his head, smiling sheepishly. "Not a very coordinated way to start off these Games, now is it?"

I can't help smiling, slightly. "Do you think they'll let you get out of playing?"

"I wish," he says. "And maybe District Five will finally manage to engineer flying pigs."

I definitely smile at that one.

"Flying pigs wouldn't be very practical, though, if you think about it," he continues thoughtfully. "And they don't even have aesthetic value, so the Capitol wouldn't like it. Maybe flying horses… yes, I can imagine that, nice big white ones with angel wings. They'd provide an extra flair for the chariot rides in the next Quarter Quell."

"Pity neither of us will be around to see it," I say bitterly.

"How do you know that? Maybe one of us will get lucky… I mean, you've obviously got a plan. You were way different out there and on stage than you are here."

"Yay," I say flatly. "Only had the plan for a couple of hours and already everyone can see through it. I'm doomed."

He hurries to reassure me. "Relax. I won't tell anyone. I mean, no point in pushing you down. Better one of us wins than neither, and if I give away that you aren't as pathetic as you pretend I can't see what good it'll do me."

Luckily, the room where we stand is completely devoid of people – Marianas and the mentors (this year it's Willow and Blue) have all disappeared to who knows where. I'm still not happy with anyone knowing, and tell him so. The Capitol people are infamous gossips, and if anyone outside us finds out then I'm dead. Literally.

"Don't worry – my lips are sealed."

"Thanks." And I mean it. Both for the promise of privacy, and for the warning to keep my guard up. It's too late for my District Partner, but no one else will find out who I am if I can help it.

"And this will seem terribly rude of me," he continues, "but I'm afraid I've completely forgotten your name."

"It's Johanna Mason. And I'm going to return the favour – no idea what yours is."

"That's not unexpected. When you're up there, everything else just completely disappears. I'm surprised I didn't wet myself with fear." He seems to forget himself for a second, before coming back to earth with a start. "Oh, and I'm Rowan Quincy."

And that is how I meet Rowan.

* * *

A few hours into the train ride we're removed from our rooms (utterly boring, by the way. Suffocating luxury, but not much to do other than shower and sleep, and there's no point sleeping when it's nowhere near dark yet. I try anyway, out of sheer boredom) and shown to an elaborately furnished dining room. I'm not particularly hungry – this time we'd usually just be finishing up work, with no food for a few more hours – but decide its probably a bad idea not to come.

Before I leave I splash water onto my face to make it look like I've been crying and badly attempting to cover it up. Thus prepared, I head off to dinner.

I'm the last one in, with Marianas taping impatiently on the table and looking pointedly at his watch. The urge to say something cuttingly sarcastic at him is almost unbearable, but the memory of my plan and promise to Vince gives me the willpower to resist.

Dinner lasts a surprisingly long time. Whenever it seems clear that there is no way we can eat any more, they bring yet another course out to us. Finally, just as we are finishing off bowls of a cold substance called ice cream, Willow looks up at a clock mounted on the wall of the dining compartment and mildly points out that it's time to watch the Reaping recap.

Dutifully, I trail out after the mentors and Rowan follows me, grabbing a biscuit off the table to chew on. We sit down and face the television that's been oh so thoughtfully installed in the compartment, if something so huge as the room I find myself in can be described as a compartment. Marianas nonchalantly hits the switch on the remote and the television blares into life.

"District Twelve's Reaping has just been completed," a voiceover announces, and the screen switches to show two dark haired, grey eyed children entering a train, both terrified and trying not to show it. "So now we move to see the Reaping replays, for those of you who missed the live broadcast.

"District One has already won the three most recent Games," the commentator says, while head shots of Cashmere and Gloss de Montfort and Marius Shine flash briefly onto the screen. "Can they continue this unprecedented winning streak? Looking at their two contestants this year, I say yes."

The scene cuts to what is obviously District One. The place is far cleaner and richer than Seven ever was, and is populated by those who are mostly pale skinned, blonde haired, and blue eyed. The first tribute is female, tall and thin but with an expression of utmost malice on her face. The male tribute is even more menacing than her, and oddly, not blond. He has spiky red hair and punches the air arrogantly when he steps up to the stage.

"But can they stand up to District Two? As you know, this District is the one with the most overall wins under its belt, and these tributes as usual don't disappoint."

But despite the announcer's words, the two who volunteer don't seem as frightening as District One. The girl is short and stocky, with clearly defined muscles. The male is taller but not by too much, and is built pretty similarly. They both look far more similar to District Seven than One did, with olive skin and dark hair.

They're Careers and will still be a threat, but District One scares me more.

"Next up is District Three. They've only had four wins in the history of the Games, but when they do win, it's always with style."

Because that will really make District Three feel happy about themselves. Nevertheless, there's a very short montage consisting of a surprising amount of explosions for four people before the scene cuts back to the grubby town square.

The population of District Three always manages to look like they've never seen sunlight. They're mostly scrawny with very pale skin in contrast to dark hair, and these two tributes fit the role exactly. The boy and the girl both seem about my age and don't look like they'll live a day. I stop feeling so high and mighty, though, when I remember that I probably look just as pathetic on camera.

"Now we get on to District Four, home to the one and only Finnick Odair."

Predictably, the screen shows a photo of Panem's most famous Victor for longer than it lingered on any of the other Districts. He was only fourteen when he won three years ago, so at seventeen he's still the youngest of past winners. And already a notorious womaniser.

Both the tributes from Four are darker than their famous mentor, and older. The girl resembles her counterpart from Two in build, but her flatter face and wild dark hair make her look far more menacing. The boy is big and bulky, towering over their District's escort when he goes to volunteer.

Now the last of the Career Districts has gone. I'm not expecting much, and so tune out District Five.

Marianas seems to be feeling much the same way I am, since he yawns and says, "This is boring. We already know how useless everyone else will turn out to be, so what's the point in watching?"

Willow and Blue look at each other and sigh, but my District Partner beats them to the punch.

"This is our Games we're talking about. There are always surprises, and I for one would rather see them now than in the Arena," Rowan points out sharply.

Marianas looks at him in disdain. How dare a common Districter talk back to someone from the Capitol? But the two mentors are quick to agree, so he's forced to drop it. Score one for District Seven.

Speaking of which, we've missed Six as well and so it's my turn to see how convincing I was.

"Well, she's not going to stand a chance in the Arena," comments the voiceover, while I'm shown weeping on the stage. Willow glances at me sympathetically, and I force myself to turn my glare into a trying-not-to-cry expression.

Rowan gets a much better reception by the commentators, being labelled as "Nothing outstanding on first glance, but he may be one to watch."

After us everything goes downhill and the only ones who really catch my attention are the girl from Eight and the boy from Ten. The latter is tall and bulkily built, with dark hair and a hooked nose. The girl doesn't seem particularly physically threatening, but Rowan points her out and on closer analysis I'm inclined to agree with him.

Perhaps luckily for me, there are no twelve year olds Reaped this year, and I manage to pull off the pathetic act well enough to equal even District Twelve's customary weaklings.

"Well that's it," Willow says briskly but kindly. "You'd better head off to bed – you two will need it tomorrow."

We're getting a makeover then paraded round the streets of the Capitol, and not actually having to walk any of it. How tiring.

Sarcasm isn't quite as effective when it's kept to yourself. Instead I roll my eyes at Rowan when no one else is looking. It's a poor substitute for the real thing, but good enough. And when he smiles back at me, his whole face lights up.

I guess we're allies, although I'm not quite sure how that happened.

* * *

Sleep proves to be elusive, and after a few hours of tossing and turning I give up, get dressed, and head back to the room where we saw the Reaping replay. There's got to be something better to do than lie in the dark, even if it is watching replays of previous Games.

So I sit there for a while, watching the sixty sixth Hunger Games and hoping that my Arena won't be anywhere near as horrible as that one was. It was my first Reaping, those Games, and it was a double relief to have made it through unscathed after I saw the sheer fright factor in that Arena.

Rowan comes in maybe twenty minutes after I start watching and sits on the armchair next to the couch I'm stretched out on. It's obvious that he's had about as much sleep as I have. In other words, not much.

"Couldn't sleep either?" he asks, lowering the volume on the television.

"Nope. Not after they screwed up our internal clocks by making me sleep before dinner. Anyway, I've never needed much sleep to function. Used to drive the other people in the dorm crazy."

I shut up after realising I've said way too much. And why am I telling all this to Rowan, anyway? I've known him for less than a day, and I'm not going to know him in a few.

"Oh, so you're a Community Centre kid."

"Yeah. You?" I survey Rowan properly for the first time. His skin's about my shade, but the hair is such a pale brown it looks almost like a dark blond. He has brown eyes like me, too, but his are pale, like a light chestnut, whereas mine have been reliably described as dark chocolate. All in all, he looks like he's my age, so I wonder why I hadn't seen him around before.

"I live with my folks and my little brother." He catches the question on my face so continues. "We're the paper mill techies – I'm home schooled so that I can get job specific training. Now I guess it's Aaron who'll become the head mill technician."

Rowan sounds a touch bitter and I'm not surprised. Job wise, he's probably got one of the better ones – close enough to actual work that us commoners don't hate him, and yet prestigious enough that the merchant class doesn't look down on him. And he gets taught much more than the blatant propaganda we get at school, I bet.

Now it's all been stolen away from him, all in the name of fun and Games.

"So I guess you don't know many people?" I ask him instead. I'm not the most social person in the District – far from it, most people are complete morons – but Vince's never-ending line of friends and casual acquaintances means that most people vaguely know me, even just as Vincent Somers' older cousin. It's a name without a face, but that suits me just fine.

"Nah. Aaron socialises a bit more, but I am – was – eldest son, and had to spend most of my time learning exactly how every single bit of machinery works and how to repair it. Anyway, I would have remembered if I'd seen someone like you around."

"I'm taking that as a compliment," I decide.

"Good," says Rowan, "Because it was meant as one."

"Good thing I took it as one, then."

He laughs. "Very good thing. I'd hate to make an enemy out of my only ally."

"You want me as an ally?" I ask him. "Even though I'll appear to be the most pathetic tribute of the lot?"

"Precisely because of it. We can play me off as the chivalrous man protecting his weaker District Partner, which could also help you appear weak. Then – bang! – secret weapon and Johanna reveals her true self."

"It doesn't help that in contrast to me you'll appear stronger," I observe dryly.

"Well yeah, that too. You help me with my image and I help you with yours, at least during training. I won't reveal your secret – as I said earlier, better to help both of us get better chances of survival." He pauses and surveys me. "You can fight, right?"

"Yes," I'm almost insulted, and it shows in my tone. Of course I can fight. I've been in plenty of scraps in my time, and won a fair few of them too. It will be annoying having everyone question me without being allowed to lash out at them for proof, but the advantage my act gives me should be more than enough to counteract that.

"Whoa, whoa, okay," he says, holding his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply anything. Though what with the act you're putting on…"

"Yeah, I get it." I take a deep breath, and for some reason I do what I almost never do. I apologise. "Sorry for snapping. It's just… back home, everyone knows not to mess with me, and I like it that way. It's going to be hard, having to keep who I really am hidden."

"But completely worth it in the end," Rowan reminds me. "Anyway, you can be yourself in front of me. Maybe that will keep you sane."

"You're making the mistake of assuming I'm sane in the first place," I point out, uncomfortable with the nature the conversation is taking and desperate to lighten the mood.

"Don't worry. After my idiot brother, anyone's a splash of sanity."

I'm curious, might as well admit it. I always got on well with Ash, and Vince is the closest person to me in the world. The rare sets of siblings encountered in the Community Centre were always just as close, understandably – they'd be the only people from their family left. I haven't seen a pair of siblings that badmouth each other, not till Rowan anyway.

"I take it you don't get on, then?"

"That's an understatement. Aaron's the biggest moron this side of District One. How the Snow he was born into a family of techies I'll never know. Now that I'm gone he'll have to be Head Technician. Wow, the mill is doomed."

"Isn't there anyone else who could do it?" I ask.

"Nah. Well, not really. One of the cousins could do it, I guess, but they haven't had proper training." He laughs, not out of any particular humour. "Not that they could do worse than Aaron. No one could do worse than Aaron, but it will be near-impossible for them to find a replacement for me."

"Because you're not being arrogant at all." Said dryly, with a refreshing dollop of sarcasm.

"It's only arrogant if it's not true," he says, completely mater of factly. "I'm at least a good a techie as my dad is, now, and everyone says I promise to be the best one our family's produced for years." A wistful tone enters his voice. "I should say said, because really, the odds are against my coming home alive."

I stay silent. Because really, what are you supposed to say to something like that? Vince would probably know, but I've never been good with people. I don't even _like_ most of them. Managing to get on with Rowan is a total fluke.

He must sense my discomfort, for he swiftly changes the subject. "So, do you have any siblings?"

"One. A brother, Ash. He was four years older than me."

"Was?" Rowan asks, looking like he realises he's treading unstable ground but having to ask anyway.

"He died," I tell him shortly. "When I was twelve."

Rowan looks like he wants to pry further, but luckily I am saved by Epoch Marianas entering the room, looking hurried for the first time ever.

"What are you two doing just sitting around and talking?" he cries with that annoying Capitol tendency to put exclamations in everything. "We've arrived!"


	4. Chapter 4

Ever since I've been old enough to hear of the Games, I've also heard the horror stories of the Remake Centre. Where they strip you down and remove all traces of dignity, before applying horrifying cosmetics to make you a synthetic shadow of your former self.

From where I'm standing, I can say with absolute certainty that it isn't all that bad.

Sure, I get how people would dislike it. But for me, the loss of dignity isn't an issue – living in the Community Centre, you get used to public nakedness and you get used fast, or face the consequences. Kids can latch onto a perceived weak spot far faster than adults give them credit for.

They say that children are innocent. Me, I know better. The young can hurt just as well as adults can, if not better. It's a dog eat dog world out there; it's programmed into us before we're even born. And some people wonder at the random cruelty of the world.

I used to. Then I realised that protest at the unfairness only made me weak, so I stopped. Rolled with the punches. Learned to fight back, made it harder for anything to hurt me. Hid any shreds of optimism behind a cynical wall and looked back one day to find them gone. Or maybe they're still there, hiding where I can't go and eradicate them. Ironically, in the past day or so they feel like they might be coming out of hiding. At only the worst time possible.

When I finally break the internal monologue and start paying attention to my treatment again, I find to great surprise that I rather enjoy it. It hurts when they remove every trace of body hair I posses, but I've had worse in the forests. And once the stinging cools down, it turns out that the strange sensation is kind of pleasant. When they scrub me down in several different ways, the hot water and lack of needing to do anything lets me have a chance to catch up on some much needed sleep.

The fact that I've remembered how different I have to act probably works too. With no sarcastic comments to make I don't bother saying anything, and once they pull me out of the large copper bathtub I remember to make the tears flow.

For someone who almost never cries, I find it surprisingly easy to make it come. Looking back in my memories provides plenty of opportunities. Vince's face during our final conversation. That lack of control I had standing up on the stage at the Reaping. Looking further back: watching Vince on stage accepting a medal to replace his mother's life. Watching a building burn with my brother's body in it. The expression of utter despair my mother wore during the nine months between my father's death and hers.

I never cried in all of those situations, but I weep now. They say necessity is the mother of invention. That might not be true, but it's the mother of emotion, and the tears I shed are purely to keep me alive. I learnt a long time ago that sadness does nothing. Instead, I channel my emotions into anger. At least rage is productive.

And so the tears fall. And so the makeup is smudged, and so my mindless prep team tries to reassure me with the empty promises of the naïve. And so I fake reluctance, and timidity, and fear. And so Johanna Mason is formed, hidden behind the mask of a weakling.

And that suits me just fine.

The prep team all boil with over the top sympathy, as fake as the multi-coloured hues of their skin. Outside, I pretend to feel pathetically grateful, express childish admiration at what they do to me. On the inside, I don't care.

Let them spread the stories of Johanna, the wimpiest tribute in the Games. Let them explain how I have no chance. Let them, and welcome them. I won't do anything to stop the rumours; in fact, I'll help encourage them.

Let the whole world know what a weakling Johanna Mason is. Let them be fooled. Like the idiots they are, let them be brought by this trick. The only people that matter know the truth.

And that more than suits me.

Because I'll be sitting here, my true self. Waiting. Waiting and watching. And when they least expect it, I shall strike.

And I don't sound like a psychotic megalomaniac at all. Nope. Perfectly sane, me.

You know it's bad when you use sarcasm against yourself.

* * *

I'm a tree. As is Rowan, as have been all our tributes for the last thirty five odd years. Really, I'd have thought they'd be a bit more original.

"Really, I'd have thought they'd be a bit more original," says Rowan, echoing my thoughts scarily accurately.

We're standing on our chariot, waiting for the other tributes to arrive so that the Opening ceremony could start. Due to the huge amount of work involved in making these costumes (not even the most naïve person of naïve people could fail to miss the sarcasm in my thoughts) we've arrived down here really, really early.

"Yes, but then they'd have to actually think," I say. "And god forbid a stylist actually has to do that."

He laughs, and then quickly glances up at the very obvious camera affixed to the corner of the ceiling.

"Do you even think they bothered altering this from last year?" he asks, steering the conversation to slightly safer waters.

I survey him critically. "I'd say no, but last year's male tribute was a midget even by twelve year old standards. There's no way his outfit would be able to fit on you."

"At least they bother going to the small trouble of changing outfits."

"Because that's such a bother," I say. "I mean, it is so terribly difficult to design a tree. Really, at least they could go to the effort of making these things actually comfortable."

No, wait. That would be semi-humane, and of course the Capitol wouldn't lower themselves to that. I don't say the thought aloud, though. Rowan and I might be the only ones down here, but anti-Capitol words can be heard a mile off. There are even rumours that District Three can create walls with microphones built in to detect any words associated with treason.

"Hey, do you think my tree looks like my namesake?" Rowan says suddenly.

Once again I find myself examining my District Partner closely. "Not really. If I had to name a tree then I'd pick oak, but there isn't a very close resemblance. You just look sort of… tree-ish."

"Like it was designed by someone who knew nothing about trees?"

"Exactly."

Rowan shakes his head jokingly. "Those strange creatures from somewhere other than District Seven."

We both laugh at that, and then the next pair of tributes enters the hall. They're the pair from District Three and apparently their stylist hasn't done a much better job than ours has. They both wear identical costumes – black close fitting fabric covering everywhere but the head, with random bits of metal stuck on haphazardly. The effect is as if they've been magnetised and rolled around in a scrap metal heap.

After District Three step onto their chariot nervously and start talking quietly – and then more animatedly - between themselves, it isn't long until more people start coming into the hall. My scared Johanna posture is further in place.

It's so effective that I start shivering slightly, and Rowan squeezes my hand gently to reassure me. The feeling of human contact that isn't family is alien, despite having been touched without thought of invasion by my prep team, and I jerk away.

He looks slightly hurt. And while I usually wouldn't care, something twinges inside of me and I hurry to reassure him.

"There are cameras everywhere, remember? The plan doesn't work that way."

His face brightens, just a little. And somewhere inside of me, a warm feeling begins to glow.

* * *

President Snow's speech is as full of crap as the ones we had to listen to back home, only here there isn't the relative anonymity of crowds to hide my distaste. Luckily, I seem to be one of the less interesting tributes, so the camera only does the occasional zoom in on my face, which is still damp with tears.

Just when I'm thinking that my strategy be damned, I will explode if we don't get out of here _now_ Snow finally finishes talking and the chariots take us the short ride to where we'll be staying for the next few days. Where the calves are fattened up for the slaughter. What amazing entertainment.

The thought must show on my face, as Rowan nudges me.

"Brighten up," he whispers. "You look more angry than scared."

I give him a quick smile in acknowledgement and try to readjust my expression into one of meek terror. He gives me a covert thumbs up and then walks confidently over to the lifts.

"Are we supposed to leave yet, Rowan?" I ask him, playing nervous. "Can we go without the others?"

"Well they're nowhere to be seen. I say let's go, they can catch up later." He's purposefully acting sure of himself to contrast with me. I resolve to thank him later, some time when we're alone and I can drop character.

"But…" In the meantime, though, I need to stay tentative and weak.

"Do you want to hang round here all night?"

I sigh and follow him into the lift, moaning and groaning as I am supposed to. Two people follow us in but it is only once the doors close that I see who they are properly. A big, bulky tribute with red hair who towers over even Rowan, a tall slender girl with long flowing blonde hair and grey eyes. The two tributes from District One. Just who I want to be spending this elevator ride with.

They look intimidating even before they realise that we're in with them. So when they do start glaring, it doesn't take much prompting for me to step backwards, shivering.

The boy must see my movement because he laughs. "That's right, little girlie. She's smart," he says to his District Partner. "She knows that no one wants to mess with us. Because, little girlie, you know who we are?"

It doesn't take any effort at all to force my body to freeze up like the scared little girl they think I am. And that worries me. If I can't stand up to a couple of bullies in here, what'll I do when I run into danger in the Arena? Another part of my mind doesn't care. I've stood up to people before. Been in plenty of fights. Lost some, before I learned. This freezing up is just my body stopping me from doing what I desperately want to do and punch this smug monster in the face.

"Her name's Johanna," Rowan says mildly but without signs of fear. I guess this confrontation is working in his favour too.

The girl sneers, and the action instantly transforms her face from pretty to ugly. "You think we care? You think we care about either of you as anything other than our next victim?"

"Well if you're so uncaring why are you going to all the bother to get acquainted?" Rowan quips. "Looks like you care quite a lot about us, to me."

He's rewarded by the girl actually stepping forward before being restrained by the far stronger looking male. To his credit, my District Partner stays where he is, although I can tell he's scared. I do move, though, to keep the act up, and almost back into the glass walls of the elevator.

"You'd do well to heed the actions of your Partner, smart guy," the male tribute says.

"Nah, no point when you're about to leave," says Rowan.

"You're the first person we'll kill in the Arena," threatens District One. "And trust me – it will be done. You won't even know what hit you."

But he will now, won't he? Now he's been threatened. Rowan seems to notice it too.

"I'm sure I will, since you've gone to the trouble of warning me. Oh, and the name's Rowan. That's spelt R-O-W-A-N, for your benefit, since I know your District isn't famous for its brains."

The girl actually growls, proving Rowan's point. The guy grabs her by the shoulder and she throws his hand off but doesn't try to attack my District Partner.

"This is our stop. See you later, meat," he says as the two of them step out of the lift into elaborately furnished corridors.

Rowan, in an act of apparent craziness, waves his hand between the closing doors to keep them open.

"Hang on," he yells after them. "What are your names? As your designated first victim, don't I deserve the honour of knowing who kills me?"

The male tribute turns around and sneers. "Might as well – remember these names, Seven, and spread my fame. I'm Glint, this is Amethyst. And we're your new worst enemies."

It takes until the door closes behind our new worst enemies for Rowan's control to slip. He starts shaking violently and I step up behind him, unsure of what to do. After a few seconds my hand ends up placing itself on his shoulder. He keeps shaking, but by the time the lift brings us back up to level seven he's almost back to normal.

"Thanks," he tells me softly as we step off the elevator.

"No problem," I say, finding to my surprise that I actually mean it. "Thanks for doing something about those idiots."

When Rowan finally replies I'm not sure if he's talking to me or to himself. "It was the most terrifying thing I've ever done in my life. You hear about people like that, you see them on TV every year… but to actually see someone pull that off…"

It's probably better not to say anything, I figure, so I let him continue on what seems like a well-needed rant.

"It scared the Snow out of me. People just don't act like that… at least that's what I thought. Even on TV, you always somehow convince yourself that there's no way someone can be that inhumane. It just put everything about the Games in perspective for me. I really don't want to end up like that… but I also don't want to let someone like that win, if you know what I mean?"

Now an answer is expected, so I nod.

"I don't know why I spoke back to them the way I did. Honestly, I thought I'd pee my pants any minute, they were so scary. But their arrogance just made me angry, so I acted. And just the way they took advantage of a scared little girl-"

"I'm almost as tall as you are," I interject mildly. "And I wasn't scared. That was all acting, as you well know. It took all my self control not to hit that smug smile right of the ginger bastard's face. Bullies and I really don't get on." I figure that a small lie won't hurt – I was scared, but there's no way I'm admitting that, not when Rowan's sounding like he might be starting to believe the act.

"Then you're a far braver person than I am."

"I don't think so. I wouldn't have been able to stay calm and talk back to them like that."

He shrugs. "Yeah, and you saw how I reacted afterwards. Years of practise, I guess. You never snap when the idiots are around, 'cause then they learn where your weak points are."

Rowan sounds like he's speaking from experience, so I look at him quizzically.

"Long story," he says, sighing. "Let's just say my brother and I really don't get along and leave it at that."

This is at least the second time I've heard this mentioned. It must be really bad, then, if he keeps bringing it up. Even with his constant expression of dislike, I still can't really believe that the two of them hate each other. With Vince and I being as close as we are – and we're not even siblings - it's hard to imagine any pair of relations not getting on.

The thought brings Vince's plight back home to the forefront of my mind, exactly where I've attempted to keep it away from all day. I'd promised him that I'd come back, and seeing monsters like Glint firsthand has made me more determined to win this thing, if only to make sure he doesn't. I guess that's what Rowan was driving at, earlier.

I hope someone else kills Rowan. I've only known him for a day or so, but I already know that I won't be able to, not after the conversations we've had. Or maybe… maybe someone will magically let two people live for once.

Yeah right. That kind of thing only happens in fairy tales, and in the dreams of tributes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry about the late update. I've been trying to update more or less fortnightly, but what with exams and all I must have lost count of the weeks. Speaking of exams, I'm right in the middle of mine, so this is probably the last update until the middle of November. I'll be on holiday after that though so I'll be able to get more written.**

**I hope people are still reading, and thanks to everyone who took two minutes to leave a review :)  
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I wake up in the morning at my customarily early time, almost missing the snores that have been my constant obstacle to sleep for over two years. Almost missing, but not quite. The flash digital clock that comes with about a million other gadgets tells me that the time is five twenty three.

No point going back to sleep. I climb out of bed, already wide awake, and go to take a shower, more out of habit than anything else. I had one last night to wash off all the makeup. It feels so strange to have a bathroom to myself, without having to worry about someone else using all the hot water or one of the boys walking in on you.

After the shower I pace around the room several times before realizing that I'll go crazy if I have to stay in this elaborate cage any longer. The dining room is empty, and as it's not yet six I'm not really surprised. At a loss for anything else to do, I go to the television room and flick on the TV.

The only thing on at this time is the recap of the Fifty Eighth Games. They're putting the more recent recaps on when people are actually awake, I guess. This one was set in what looks like the ruins of America – a barren place, without many plants, but lots of collapsed metal structures and rotting wooden ones. Also a lot of abandoned machinery, and as I watch one of the tributes pulls apart some of these to create an improvised weapons shooter – a pretty big advantage in a Games where they were just given maces and told to hack each other to death.

I watch for half an hour or so as the guy from District Three proceeds to get a rusty old car – probably left in to keep the place looking authentic - working again and manages to hide in it undetected pretty much constantly for a few days, until the Gamemakers get fed up with the lack of action and call a feast. Then traps the accelerator downwards. Pulls his shirt off. Siphons half the petrol in the tank out, splashes it around the car and on his shirt. Sets the shirt on fire, tosses it in the car, turns the key and starts the car. Which races straight towards the location of the feast, and presumably ends up killing every single other tribute within thirty seconds.

I turn the television off just before impact, shaken despite myself. Now I understand why people look at District Three with awe and a bit of respect, despite their abysmal victory record. They're the District often overlooked among it's far more powerful Career neighbours. Most of their tributes are pale, skinny, and unused to lots of physical exertion, and are dead within minutes. But every so often you get one like the one I just saw, one exceptionally good at what they do – thinking, improvising - and fast. And if they end up in your Games, chances are they're going to win, and win in style.

I really must keep an eye on the ones we've got, even if they don't really seem the type from what I've seen.

Though I guess that's the same with all us non-Careers. Take District Twelve. Usually they give us tributes about as pathetic as Three's usual lot. But occasionally you get a survivor; someone strong, and skilled, with abilities of survival the rest of us don't have. Or Eleven, who sometimes gives off tributes who are as strong as trained Careers and always exceptionally good at finding food.

Willow comes in while I'm pondering this. "Oh, Johanna, there you are. I wondered why there wasn't a reply when I knocked on your door. Couldn't sleep, huh?"

I nod weakly, instantly reverting to pathetic Johanna mood.

She winces in sympathy. "Oh, poor you. I remember when I was a tribute; I was just the same. Come on, let's get some breakfast. That should cheer you up."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. I find one always feels better when there's food."

I follow her into the dining room, which is already set up with rolls of bread and spreads, and steaming jugs. "But hadn't we better wait for the others?"

"Blue will be up soon enough, and Rowan was so fast asleep when I looked in on him that I couldn't bear to wake him. There'll be hot food served when everyone's here."

Willow is right, and my other mentor soon makes his way into the room, followed by Epoch Marianas.

"I woke the boy up," Blue tells Willow. "He should be coming soon, and then we can get down to business."

Despite Blue's words, it takes another ten minutes and a plateful and a half of eggs before Rowan actually shows up. When he does come in, he's yawning, and his hair is still rumpled. He staggers to a seat and almost collapses into it.

"You really aren't a morning person, are you?" I observe.

Rowan mutters something about annoying people who can think straight before twelve and reaches for a jug of steaming brown liquid.

"Is this coffee? Awesome!"

As he pours himself a generous cup full, he turns to me.

"We used to get this on special occasions back home. It's really expensive but my mum's a big fan of the stuff, so we always saved up and brought a pack every year or two. We'd make it last ages. You should try some."

He offers me his cup, and I take it and take a sip. A bitter taste spills into my mouth and I swallow it, pulling a face. Rowan laughs at my expression.

"Okay, maybe it is a bit of an acquired taste," he says, taking the cup back and drinking heavily. "Wakes you up like nothing else, though."

While the rest of us finish our food and watch Rowan dig in, Blue calls for attention. Today is the first day of training, and he wants to brief us on what to expect. He quickly outlines the basic system, tells us it will be explained properly there, and then begins to explain how we can get the most of training.

"Some mentors tell their tributes to keep away from weapons entirely to avoid showing how hopeless they are or hide any skills they may have, or give the impression that they have skills to hide. I'm not that type of mentor. Survival skills may save your life, but they're hopeless if you're in a direct confrontation. And sooner or later, you will be in one. No one's yet won a Games by hiding out and not killing anyone. Chances are you won't be the first.

"So go, and try everything. See if there's anything you're good at, and hone those skills. Tribute politics are important, but worth nothing if you can't actually back up the impression you're making. And do yourself a favour and don't provoke the Careers."

Rowan looks sheepish. "So I guess this isn't the best time to tell you that I'm now top of District One's kill list?"

Willow buries her head in her hands. Blue reacts slightly better.

"No, this isn't," he says dryly, with a pained expression on his face. "Now shoo. Get down to training, both of you."

* * *

Again, we arrive relatively early, and so there are only six other tributes waiting in the training room when Rowan and I step out of the lift. They all have their District number stuck onto their shirts, and almost as soon as we've cleared the lifts the woman directing training hands us ours and instructs us on how to put them on. Because it's so hard to figure out how to work a giant sticker.

The other tributes are from Districts Five, Eight and Ten respectively. They're more talkative than I'd imagined tributes would be on the first day of training, but that doesn't have to mean anything. What's odd is the subject of the conversation.

"No, it _is_ a good idea," the girl from Five insists. She's quite short and has dark blonde hair tied back in two shoulder height braids.

"It's a stupid idea, that's what it is. Do you want to get us all killed? None of us are good enough fighters to take them on." The speaker is one of the tributes from Eight, the girl I think.

The boy from Ten, dark haired and olive skinned, and easily the largest of the group, speaks from where he's leaned against the wall. "That's what you think."

"Exactly. Listen to Crow," District Five continues. "Anyway, it doesn't matter if we can match up to them in fighting skills-"

"Doesn't matter? Doesn't matter! We're going to get our buts kicked, that's what's going to happen. Of course it matters!"

District Eight's District partner looks at her. "Shut up. Let Five finish what she has to say; I thought it rather interesting. Anyway, if it's our safety you're worried about then let's get some more people in on it. The Careers won't dare to attack us if it's, say, ten against six, no matter how much weaker at fighting we are. The cost to their own numbers is too much to risk."

She rolls her eyes. "I think all of you guys are forgetting something. This is the Hunger Games. There can only be one winner. This isn't a team game."

"So why are you joining us?" Crow asks from where he's still leaned against the wall.

"Because I'm not stupid, that's what. In the end there can only be one Victor but an alliance can help me to survive longer than I could on my own. I still think that meeting up after the bloodbath will be an issue though."

"We can cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, why not gain a numerical advantage. Anyone opposed to getting District…" - Five glances at us to see the number on our shirts – "Seven involved?"

My mind reels. Some tributes are forming an alliance? Another one, outside of the traditional Career alliance? And they want us to join? Are they joking, or actually just that insane? A challenge to their authority is the fastest way to get the Careers after you, as Rowan proved last night.

But they do have a point. The reason the Careers win so often is because there is such a thing as safety in numbers. Their training helps too, obviously, but the pack tactic helps them even more. So in theory, teaming up should help.

Somehow, though, I think that the girl from Eight is on the right track and that teaming up will only hinder. Especially with my act; people will either go for me first as the weak link or be close enough to figure it out. All in all, I decide, I'm better off on my own, and so I shake my head and step back.

"No, I'm fine thanks," Rowan says casually. "Thanks for the offer, though, but I think I'd rather keep to myself."

District Five shrugs. "Suit yourself. And you?" she says, turning to me. "Do you want to join out little union?"

I shake my head again.

"Why not?" She doesn't actually say that someone like me would need protection, but it's pretty heavily implied by her tone. Huh. Shows what she knows.

"Because I don't want to. There's danger and betrayal and fighting and…" my voice sounds close to tears even from my own ears. Good. It'll give the image I want. Now that there are two groups of tributes who could hunt me down it's more important than ever that I'm underestimated.

As District Five turns away I can hear the girl from Eight sneer in disgust. "Good thing she didn't say yes. Having a coward like her with us is a sure way to get killed faster."

Rowan gives me a sympathetic grin. The others will interpret that as a tribute trying to support his already dead District Partner. I know it means something totally different though – 'well done for keeping your cover up, and please try not to lose your patience and injure anyone'.

Then the lift doors open once more and District Four steps into the room. The other three Districts scatter and we all stand in various forms of intimidated silence until, over fifteen minutes or so, all twenty-four of us are assembled in the training room.

* * *

"So how do you think that went?" Rowan asks me at lunch. We're sitting at the same table because there aren't enough for one each, not even with the Careers sharing one and the Unionists, as they're now being called, sharing another. Not that I mind, though.

I shrug. "Asking learning-wise or otherwise?"

He knows what I mean. "Both."

"Ok, I guess. Picked up a few things from edible plants that might come in handy. Proved that I have no chance at picking up any fighting skills, rather publicly."

Rowan winces in remembrance. "That couldn't have been fun. You had even me feeling sorry for you."

"Yay," I say flatly.

"Oh, cheer up, Johanna. It wasn't that bad. And," he lowers his voice, "It was extremely useful."

"I said yay, didn't I? That generally means a good thing."

"Not the way you said it."

"Ok, you caught me. Sarcasm. I've never used that before in my life."

He sighs. "Look, I don't know what's gotten into you. Your attempt at knife-throwing wasn't that bad."

"Yes it was."

"Ok, it was. Feel better now? No, you don't. So stop brooding on it. Think of the positives – at least no one can doubt your cover now."

He sounds so much like Vince that I have to smile. "You sound like my cousin. It's just so frustrating, that's all."

"I can imagine. But hey, imagine the results. You've seen how good those Careers are… To get past some of them you're going to need the element of surprise, no matter what a good fighter you are."

I'm so glad that the two groups in the room are making enough noise to cover up our conversation. For safety's sake, though, I decide to change the subject anyway.

"How do you think training's going?"

"From a purely mechanical point of view, I don't think it's going to make much of a difference," Rowan says bluntly.

"Why not?" I ask, inwardly laughing at his phrasing. Once a mechanic always a mechanic, I guess.

"Well think about it. Against people who've trained their whole lives, three days training isn't going to make a bit of difference. They're just giving us this to try to make us feel a bit more cheerful, so we can willingly go like lambs to the slaughter."

"And I thought I was supposed to be the cynical one," I observe.

"No one can have a monopoly on cynicism. Anyway," he says, changing the subject, "what do you think of the others so far?"

I shrug. "Too early to say, isn't it? Careers are Career-like as usual, you're not doing too badly for a techie-"

"Gee, thanks."

"It's a compliment. Learn to take them."

"The praise or the fact that you've been paying close enough attention to me to notice how I'm doing?"

I silently thank my genetic material for not giving me an easy blush reflex, not like Minty who ends up clashing with her hair on regular occasions. Why would he…?

"Oh, so you're speechless now, are you?" Rowan teases. "I've made the great sarcastic Johanna Mason speechless."

He's known me for all of two days and yet he's managed to figure out that I'm not often lost for words. Somehow, I think that means that he's not in a position to talk about paying close attention.

I say as much and he laughs. "Maybe, but at least I don't mind admitting it."

Admitting what? There isn't anything to admit. Well, other than that I find his paying so much attention strangely flattering… is that what he meant by admit? He can't have meant anything else, could he? I keep my internal turmoil to myself, though.

"Shut up."

He laughs again, and then we're called back in to training.


	6. Chapter 6

**And so BNTN updates late, again. Exams are over now though, so hopefully updates should be faster.**

**I wasn't entirely sure about parts of this chapter, which is also why I delayed posting a bit. Hopefully you guys are still reading; I'd like feedback on how it turned out.**

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The second day of training goes just as the first day does. The Careers terrify everyone else with their lethal accuracy with whatever weapon they pick up. The Union of Districts Five, Eight and Ten stays together and insists on proving how little they think of the Careers, despite the fact that they're really as scared as everyone else is. No one else joins them.

I keep my terrified little Johanna Mason act up, and hope like Snow nobody's as smart or paying as much attention as Rowan is. Having someone who knows who I actually am is a life saver; if it wasn't for him, I would have dropped the act and all the advantages it gives me way before this. As is, I'm finding it hard enough not to go and throw some axes around, just to show everyone.

And then on the third day I wake up to find no one else awake. This isn't exactly unusual – I'm always the first one up. What is weird is how an hour later Rowan stumbles into the TV room bleary eyed and demands to know where everyone is.

I shrug and hit mute. "How should I know?"

"I don't know – maybe because you're always the first up? They'd tell you before they left."

"Are you always this sarcastic this early in the morning?" I demand. "No, I have no idea where they are. How do you know they're not asleep? Finding sponsors must be such tiring work."

Rowan smiles and stifles a yawn. "It seems my sarcasm's catching. But seriously, do you actually think they'll still be asleep? Even I'm up."

He has a point. Of course, there's no way I'm actually going to tell him that.

"Barely. Come on; let's get some coffee into you. Maybe then you'll actually be able to use that technician's brain of yours to figure out where they are."

As it turns out, we don't need to. In the dining room, amidst the covered plates of breakfast food, they've left a note. Rowan picks it up with the hand not nursing his mug of coffee and reads it.

"The three of them have gone traipsing off to some sponsor meeting or other. Well, Blue and Willow have at least; I find it hard to believe that our esteemed escort would go to one willingly. They say to help ourselves to breakfast and to go down to training at the usual time."

I glance at the digital display built into the wall. "That's in over an hour."

"Indeed it is," says my District Partner, mouth already full. "Come on, help yourself. It's not poisonous – they don't want to kill us till the Games."

I laugh, a tad bitterly, and sit down. We eat quickly and in silence, then get up and move back to the TV room. As usual, the white clothed servants are there to clean up after us, and I never feel comfortable watching them work. I was brought up in a world where you had to help yourself if you wanted things done. To have someone serve someone else like that – serve me like that – is just wrong.

"Well, we've got an hour to kill," Rowan says, once we're sitting down in the TV room and awkward silence seems about to reign. When I don't respond, he continues, "So what are we going to do to kill it?"

I shrug.

"Being really helpful here, Johanna. Do you know how hard it is to maintain a one sided conversation?"

No, I don't, because the only time I'm the speaker in a one sided conversation is when I'm trying to antagonise someone. Instead of saying this, though, I ask what we're supposed to be talking about.

"Anything." He pauses, thinking. It looks like he's struggling with himself against his own curiosity. "What's it like living in the Community Centre?"

It's a pretty harmless question, but I think before answering. "Ok, I guess. It has its ups and its downs. What's it like living in that house attached to the paper mill?"

He smiles sheepishly. "I get the point. It's a bit hard to describe things that seem to commonplace to you. How did you feel when you moved in?"

No, that wasn't really what Johanna meant, but oh well. He does have a point.

"Are we playing a question for a question now?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Why not?"

There are probably several reasons, but I can't really think of any at the moment. It is a way to kill the time, after all. And I do have to admit that I've wanted to find out more about Rowan. Instead of saying any of this, though, I just answer his question.

"Angry, mostly. Anger at the world and at everyone in the Centre who kept trying to talk to me. Even at Vince a bit, 'cause he was so… Vince. You haven't met my cousin, have you?"

He shakes his head.

"Well imagine the most cheerful person you know, and imagine them like that all the time, even if they should be bitter and cynical from what life's thrown at them. Then imagine them actually genuinely liking people, or at least doing so by all appearances. That's Vince. He can be a bit overwhelming at times, but he's my cousin. He's all I've got left."

I shut my mouth abruptly, feeling the distinct impression that I've just said far too much. Rowan sits there for a few seconds, absorbing what I've just blurted out.

"So why were you in the Community Centre in the first place?" he asks, looking like he has some misgivings about asking.

I almost answer and then realise something. "Hey! It's my turn to ask a question now."

"Nope, sorry. You already did – asked if I knew your cousin. Question for a question, remember?"

"That doesn't count," I protest.

"It does. But if you don't want to answer the question…"

Rowan looks genuinely worried and I feel a sudden urge to squeeze his shoulder or hug him or… something. Which is really strange. By all odds it should be the other way round, since he's the one making me relive memories I'd rather not remember. But somehow, I find that I kind of want to tell him.

"It's okay. It'll probably do me good to talk about it."

And so I do. Over the next half hour or so, I find myself telling Rowan everything. About Vince, about Ash, about Aunt Aspen. Things I've never told anyone, not even Vince. Though of course, I'd never needed to tell my cousin – he'd know anyway. It's easy to open up to Rowan and I don't know why. Maybe it's because, with only a few days left to live, there's no harm in letting someone in. I won't be around long enough for them to do the inevitable and hurt me.

In return, Rowan tells me things, too. How it is living in the paper mill. His mixed thoughts on not going to school. About a time when their house burnt down and he spent months sleeping in the mill itself. He tells me about his ups and downs, as well as simple childhood reminiscing.

Once we're off these deeper subject, we move onto trivialities. We find out we share a favourite colour (deep blue). I learn about the day to day running of the mill; he tries to understand my love of the morning. Soon we leave the past and move onto the futures that could have been.

"So, what would you have done if you hadn't been Reaped," Rowan asks me.

I shrug and consider it. "I don't know. I suppose I never really bothered to think more than a year or two ahead. Survive one Reaping, wait for the next. Wait for the next storm to come and upset what little bit of normality Vince and I managed to get – and sure enough, here I am, about to go into the Games."

"Oh, Johanna, don't be like that."

"But if this hadn't happened," I continue, not quite ignoring him, "then I guess I'd have turned eighteen, been kicked out of the Centre and been given a block of allocated housing. Gone to work in the forests, properly, and looked after Vince till he turned eighteen too and would be finally safe."

I don't really know what would have happened after that. Never really had the luxury to consider it.

"I'm not sure either," Rowan says without waiting for my question. "I would've grown up, inherited the mill. Gotten married, I guess. Had kids. They would've gone through the Reaping, but at least the mill would've stayed with my family, and not gone to the idiot side of it."

He seems to be ignoring the game of questions for the moment. "I know what I would have wanted to do, though. Don't you feel it, the weight of all the things you wanted to do but can never get the chance?"

I shake my head, because I haven't really thought of it. Only thought about poor Vince, finally alone. And, if I must admit it, thought about the fact that Rowan will have to die if I'm going to win. I've gotten to know him well, over the past few days. I really don't want that to happen.

"Well I do. Snow, I do, so so much. I'm never even going to live to see my next birthday. It's not something you really think about, is it, birthdays? Not at our age. But I'm never even going to turn sixteen. I'll be trapped, fifteen, for eternity. Or I won't. It depends what you think comes after, really. I'd like to think there will be something but somehow I doubt it."

I stay silent. Rowan let me vent, earlier. Now he needs someone to return the favour. Almost subconsciously, my hand reaches for his arm and slides upwards to squeeze his shoulder.

"There are other things, too. Mum was working on a project when I left. I'm never going to see it finished. Never going to kiss a girl. Pretty big milestone, isn't it? First steps, first words, first kiss. It never used to bother me, though. Never really met a girl I wanted to kiss."

He turns to look at me, and I am suddenly hyperaware of just how close we are sitting. Closer than is needed on a couch of this size. It had just seemed natural at first, and we'd both drawn close without either of us realising it. Now I notice every place where we're touching as though my skin has grown super sensitive, but only in those parts. Everywhere else seems dull in comparison. Oddly, I don't feel any wish to move away.

"Well, almost never."

He looks at me again and I look back at him, observing Rowan more closely than I ever have before. His skin, tan but still a bit lighter than mine. His thin face with a smattering of freckle, unnoticed before, over the nose. His brown eyes that grow darker towards the pupils.

"There is one girl."

I know he means me, but it still catches me by surprise when he tells me and my heart suddenly feels like it's going at a million beats a second.

He leans in and I tilt my head upwards and our lips are almost touching but not quite when he stops and asks me if I want it too. I nod, caught up in the emotion of it all, and feel happy that he's still Rowan, still my Rowan, who only pleases himself if other people don't get hurt.

And then he leans in and I lean in and we're kissing. And it's scary but it's awesome and the most amazing thing I've ever done. And in the first few seconds I don't think anything but feel and get even more caught up in it all than I was before. And I'm kissing Rowan and I don't think about anything else.

And then that last thought finally makes its way into my head. I'm kissing Rowan. Rowan with the brown hair and the cheeky smile. Rowan of the Paper Mill. Rowan, my District Partner. Who's probably going to die in a few days.

All the emotion clears from my head and I pull away abruptly. I still can't think straight once they're gone and it's just panic going through my head.

Mind still whirling, I jump up and almost sprint to the elevator. In the back of my head, somewhere, I can hear Rowan calling out to me but I ignore him. Without thinking where I can go, I hit the button for the training level.

Once the lift starts moving I collapse against a wall, legs barely managing to hold me up. My mind tries to make sense of what happened, with limited success.

I was wrong, that first day at the Reaping. One of my past lives did have good karma - the issue is, the bad karma far outweighs it. Any other time I'd be incredibly happy over what just happened; any other time where we weren't so rushed and where I had time to think. Any other time where one or both of us wouldn't have to die in a matter of days.

Oh, Snow, why does it have to be now? And why does everything have to be so confusing?

* * *

I arrive in the Training Centre early. The trainers are all gathered together having their morning briefing but the noise of the elevator doors opening draws their attention to me, so I end up having all their eyes following me as I step into the room. My inner turmoil must show on my face because a few of them give me sympathetic looks.

"Girl, are you alright?" one of them asks.

Mutely, I shake my head. No, I'm not alright. I'm incredibly confused about what just happened. I'll let them think what they think, though. It'll just be one step further in confirming me as the token weakling, blubbering over her inevitable death in a few days.

"Of course she's not alright, Tiberius," another, a female, snaps. "Look at her, will you?"

"I was only trying to help, which is better than what you're doing!"

The girl responds and sure enough it turns into a yelling match between them. Another trainer – the one from the knots station, I think – comes over to me and puts a hand on my back, steering me away. I flinch at her touch but don't move aggressively away as I'd like to.

"Ignore those two. They're always like this. Repressed sexual tension, I think."

I almost laugh at the irony of her statement. Why, oh why, does romance have to be following me everywhere today?

"See?" she says, viewing my almost-laugh as one of happiness, "you're feeling better already. Time away from the terrible twosome will do that to anyone."

We pause by her station and she turns to face me, speaking kindly. "Now, tell me what's bothering you and I'll try to fix it. No point spending the next few days all depressed."

And even though she's barking completely up the wrong tree, the woman has a point. I'm going to die, probably. Best to make the most of the time I've got left. If only things were so simple. Stupid Rowan, ruining everything.

But yet: I let him kiss me. I liked it. I kissed him back. It's not exactly like I can be blamed – the guy is smart, and funny, and really rather attractive. And he's real. I know he's not perfect; I've heard his stories, seen his arrogance in motion. But I don't care.

And I can't believe I just thought that. What on Panem is wrong with me? I'm not one of those lovesick girls who pines after every attractive guy she meets. I've always been far too practical for that. Never had a crush. If I must be honest, refused to ever let myself fancy a guy like that. Because with the exception of Vince, everyone I care for dies. It's the Mason family curse. My previous incarnation was a mass murderer, must have been.

Because really, what were the odds. Just when I meet a guy I like – fine, subconscious, like a lot, you win – it's when we're both being sentenced to death. Just brilliant. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Typical.

"Girl? District Seven?"

"Sorry," I say softly, "I was thinking of something else."

And really, it doesn't take too much effort to make a tear slide down my cheek.

"If there's anything I could do…" the trainer says.

I shake my head and make myself cry. "You can't help this. Nothing can."


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Updates should be more or less regular for a bit, touch wood. I hope you continue to enjoy the fic and would love to hear everyone's opinions.**

**Oh, and thanks to PK9 for inventing a bit of the D7 slang seen later in this chapter :)**

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The rest of training passes in a blur. My mind is still in turmoil after the events of this morning and is very happy to let my body work on autopilot. The knot-tying instructor seems to have decided to take the poor confused girl from District Seven under her wing, and this suits me just fine.

I spend the morning practising knots, which I realise will be the perfect skill to show the Gamemakers. It'll give me a few points but not enough for anything near what most of the others will get. The part of my brain that's in complete and utter chaos wonders how I'm managing to think this clinically. To be honest, I don't really know – a distraction from thinking about this morning, maybe.

Every so often I catch myself remembering the feeling of Rowan's lips on mine. Always, I jolt out of these moments and glance around guiltily to see if anyone else noticed my slip. No one ever does, except for one time when I look to see Rowan staring at me with a knowing smile on his lips.

I just redouble my efforts to avoid him and try to get lost in my knot tying. It doesn't always work, though, and at times I catch myself glancing around to see where he is and what he's doing.

Proof that you like him, whispers the traitorous voice in my head. But is it proof? Or do I only feel like this towards him because he's probably the last guy I'll ever see? Part of me, the old optimistic romantic side that I thought I'd squashed long ago, tries to reassure me that I do like him, and that he does like me. The more cynical part of me thinks otherwise.

I glance across at Rowan again and see he has some sort of dreamy smile on his face. He does like you like that, thinks the inner optimist triumphantly. I ignore that part of me, as I always do. It's never been right before; why should this time be any different?

"Are you sure you're fine?" asks the knot tying trainer for what must be the sixth time today.

I realise that I've been mumbling to myself and smile weakly, giving off the hopefully perfect impression of a shy and terrified girl.

"Yes, I'm certain."

"I don't believe you, but this isn't any of my business. Now, this knot is called…"

* * *

I end up eating lunch at the same table with Rowan, just as had occurred for the previous two days. Unlike those earlier days, we don't talk. I stay silent and he doesn't seem like he wants to be the first to broach a subject. Finally, just as District One is being called in to see the Gamemakers, he speaks up.

"Look Johanna, we need to talk. It doesn't have to be now – I know I'd rather not talk about something like that with an audience – but it does need to be soon. I'd rather like a resolution before I die."

"You're not going to die," I respond automatically. "But fine. We'll talk. Tonight, after we've had our private sessions and before we get our scores."

He nods, and we spend the rest of our time waiting in silence. Silence that seems to take forever as slowly, slowly, the room begins to empty of people. Until finally, District Six is being called. After them it seems like an eternity, but eventually I get called in.

When I walk into the training room again it doesn't take too much effort to over emphasise my nervousness. This, and the resulting score, is what my plan hinges on. If I give away too much then the others will view me as an important target, but too little and I have such a low score there's no point leaving me till later, not the mention the conspicuous absence of sponsors this'll leave. Even the most sympathetic of viewers like to sponsor someone with a tiny chance.

I glance up at the balcony that holds the Gamemakers to see them occupied with food and drinks laid in front of them. Ah well. At least it means they'll be paying less attention to me and be more willing to give a not particularly notable score.

After a few seconds one glances up. "Go ahead."

So I do. My first beeline is for knots, where I'm not incredibly skilled but not too bad either. After I tie a few average looking knots, I head over to weaponry to prove just how terrible and harmless I am. Even then, I make sure to keep well away from axes. They might be half drunk but even the Gamemakers won't believe that someone from District Seven can't raise an axe. Finally I'm told to leave and do so with quite a bit of relief – I've begun to run out of ideas for stations to make my mediocre way through.

My relief fades when I find Rowan waiting for me outside the door I exit from.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss.

"Waiting for you. We need to talk, remember?"

I remember. I'd just hoped to keep avoiding him for the next few days until it wouldn't matter anymore.

Rowan seems to read my mind. "I had the feeling you'd try to avoid me. But we need to deal with what happened this morning, and I'd rather do it today. I don't particularly feel like ending up on the wrong side of the tree with all this on my mind."

"You're not going to die," I tell him again, pressing the button to call the lift.

Rowan whirls around to face me. "Will you stop saying that? We both know it's not true. Odds are I am going to die – odds are you will too. Pretending that I will make it out alive isn't doing anything. It's just making me feel like you think I'm a child who can't handle the truth!"

The lift doors slide open and we step through them into it.

"I will when you stop dealing with your death so matter of factly," I snap back at Rowan. "I know what the Games are like just as much as you do, Mister 'oh I'm so much smarter than everyone else'. You don't need to keep reminding everyone of how you're about to die every ten seconds."

"Why not? Why shouldn't I be a realist?"

"Because you're not being a realist! You're being fatalistic. There's a difference."

It's one I had to pick up on quickly. When you've had as many things happen to you as I have you need to learn to deal with them. Vince and I both take opposite routes, but even through my route of cynicism you still need to learn that the world isn't just a pit of doom and despair. Vince acts as my reminder of that, and he's what keeps me sane.

"Is there?" Rowan asks, challenging me.

"Yes! I know I'm _probably_ going to die. But there's still a chance for me to get out alive – and that's why I'm going through all this faking weak torture. You say you know you're going to die – so you will, because you're not going to try to do anything else."

We step out of the lift into the seventh floor.

"Well I will. Short of something wiping out everyone else, there's no way I'll make it out of there alive." Rowan lowers his voice a bit, realising he was yelling. "And you know what, Johanna? I've made my peace with it. I know I've only got a few days left, and so I'd rather _not_ spend them with all this tension hanging around."

I ignore the last half of his statement. "Why do you keep going on about how you're going to die. So am I, but I don't spend all my time crying for attention over it!"

Rowan looks at me angrily. "Why do you care?"

I look at him, just look, and discover that my frustration with him might be real but I'm not feeling anger. It's something else, something I can't quite place. And then all the emotions I've been feeling all day burst out of me into just four words.

"Why do you think?"

The words seem to hand there in the air forever, loaded with meaning. After what seems like forever but really can't be more than a few seconds Rowan's face clears of any remaining annoyance and changes into a softer expression. The same one he wore this morning, I realise. He takes a step across the floor, closer to me, and hugs me tightly.

I hug him back, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, and rest my head against his shoulder. It fits there perfectly. We stand there, just hugging, for what must be minutes before I finally pull away from him gently.

"You're not going to run again, are you?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No more running. You were right, Rowan. I don't want to spend the next few days wrapped up in this tension either."

Already the tension between us seems to be disappearing, and we're going back to the way we were before this morning. Only different. Better, maybe.

Rowan grins at me, that cheeky smile that is just essentially him. "I always am right."

I roll my eyes and swat at him playfully.

"Seriously though," he continues, "we do need to talk about this. Clear the air properly."

"Yeah, we do. But not in here; it's much too public."

He smirks again. "So whose room – yours or mine?"

"You do know what they'll think when we both come out of the same room together," I point out.

"No they won't. We're only fifteen. What do they think we'd be getting up to?"

I pull a face, thinking of some of the people I know. Those who were more desperate before the Community Centre than Vince or I ever were, those who technically still have relatives to live with. I'm lucky – I was never particularly good looking, and never that desperate.

"You'd be surprised."

Rowan sees the shadow pass over my face but doesn't comment. "We'll leave the door open then and talk quietly. Then no one would be able to suspect anything but a friendship between two tributes. I'm sure that must happen sometimes."

And so that is what we end up doing. Rowan perches on his bed; I sit leaning against the wall where nobody casually passing through the halls would be able to see me. And we talk.

At first we avoid the subject that was why we wanted to start our conversation. Rowan says he's being unusually forward in his approach as is, and neither of us are the type to tackle emotional issues head on. I prefer proper things I can fight.

Even with the almost-forced light conversation, it's a relief to be free of the tension that's been haunting us all day. It's also nice to know that the kiss didn't change too much between us, that we can still talk just as we used to. I've only known Rowan for a few days, and yet still catch myself thinking in much longer term words. Then again, in the past few days I've gotten to know him better than I'd gotten to know anyone since I learned that getting to know people just ends in heartbreak.

So of course, that rule goes out the window in a situation when it definitely will end in one of us dead. Typical, that is. Just typical.

After what the wall clock in Rowan's room tells me was a bit over an hour, we finally feel comfortable enough to turn the conversation onto the more awkward matter. The forest in the room. The kiss, and what it means, and us. Whether there is an 'us', that is, and what it means for the Arena.

It changes nothing, we decide. Teaming up would just end in heartbreak, since there's no way the Capitol would change their rules for two teens who happened to meet at precisely the wrong moment.

Which is all it is, really. I like Rowan, like him a lot, am even ready to admit it now, but that's all there is. Two fifteen year olds who happen to fancy each other at the moment. Even now, with the turmoil of emotions running through my head, I can admit that. If we'd met anywhere but here we would've danced around each other for far longer, hopefully gotten together eventually, been together for a few months and then split up, just as I've seen numerous couples at school do. At fifteen, you're too young for true love.

I tell Rowan this, and he agrees. "That doesn't change anything though," he says. "You're here and I'm here and we like each other. That's enough."

And it is enough. I know that it's only the pressure of the Games that's making things go this fast, that it was only the prospect of the Arena in a few days that gave Rowan the courage to kiss me. The closeness of death is playing with our emotions, making them more intense that they'd usually be. I don't care, not at the moment. It's odd feeling this way. Elated happiness, but dread because I know that there's no way this could last. Mix that in with the confusion and wonder of the morning, the tension of the rest of that day, the frustration of the elevator – today's been a real emotional rollercoaster.

Soon the talking merges into leaning against each other (and the wall) in the blind spot of the door. That morphs into kissing quickly enough, and so we spend another pleasant half hour or so.

Then I notice the time. It's ten minutes until the Training Scores are due to be broadcast on television. We get up and make ourselves presentable. Rowan's cheeks are slightly flushed – the guy seems to go red more easily than me – so he goes into his bathroom and splashes cold water on them in an attempt to make the redness go away. I laugh at him and get a face full of water for my trouble.

So like that, joking and laughing, we make our way to the television room where it's harder than usual to keep the about the burst into tears face on.

"What's so funny?" Blue asks from where he's sprawled out on an armchair flipping through channels, a can of one of those not bad Capitol fizzy drinks in his hand.

Rowan improvises. "I was telling Johanna about one of my brother and mine's exploits back home in the mill. You see, Aaron in all his infinite wisdom had managed to wedge a piece of paper in a very delicate piece of machinery…"

He is cut off by Marianas who is sitting in another armchair reading a brightly coloured Capitol gossip magazine. "Yes, yes, very interesting I'm sure." He doesn't sound remotely interested.

"Yes, it was rather interesting," Rowan tells him cheerfully. "What's even more interesting is what Johanna here managed to pull off in training."

I resolve to injure him later. At the moment, of course, I'm stuck starting down at the ground sheepishly and trying to remember something interesting that happened when they ask.

"So, what did you do?" Blue, unlike Marianas who has given up even the pretence of listening, sounds curious.

I try to conjure up the emotion of wanting to vanish and hope I'm pulling off the appearance of doing so properly. "I fell off their climbing wall."

Well, technically I did. I don't add that I did so on purpose.

"You what?" Willow appears in the doorway. "Are you okay, Johanna?"

"Mostly. It wasn't from very high up. A few bruises – do you want to see?"

Willow shakes her head. "I think I'll pass, thanks. Blue, do you mind putting the television onto the Games? The scores will be broadcast soon."

They are – as it turns out, Blue flips to the right channel just in time. The scores are also mostly predictable and accompanied by the same encouraging commentators as usual. Note sarcasm for that second part.

District One pulls off a nine and a ten respectively for the girl and the boy. District Two both get eights, which is still better than most people but nothing like what their District usually manages. District Three are above and below average each, with the girl getting a seven and the boy a five. I resolve to look out for them – seven is pretty high for a non Career.

Four score an eight and a nine. I pay attention to the girl from Five, and she gets a six – pretty average, but she did seem to be the organising force behind the Unionists. District Six is nothing special.

Then comes our turn. Rowan pulls a seven, which gets him the attention he wants and a few laughs from the commentators – 'The seven from Seven'. Next is me and I manage that three, just as I wanted. Willow and Blue groan and the former shoots me another of her sympathetic glances. Marianas just laughs. I think he's a bit drunk. Myself, I resist the urge to smile triumphantly and focus on District Eight.

They're also pretty average – both fives. The weakest link in the Union, for all of the girl's bluster. Then Nine, who pull a six and a four. District Ten is the first proper non-Career upset, which suits me just fine. Crow, their boy, manages a nine, which is better than half the Careers.

I'm not as surprised as I should be. Tall, strong-looking, quiet Crow does have something about him which radiates power and strength. District Five must be jumping for joy to have him as an ally.

Then come Eleven and Twelve, with all fours but a six from the boy of the former. The night ends with me established firmly as the weakest contestant.

Between this and Rowan, it hasn't been a bad evening.


	8. Chapter 8

**Happy New Year everyone – and I'm even getting the timing right. I'm rather proud, really. So yeah. If we believe the conspiracy theorists we've only got one decent year yet (and most of 2012, but that's not the point), so best to make the most of it ;)**

**Oh, and since it seems to have drowned in the archive – I have a oneshot up called 'He Who Fights Monsters', which is Finnick's Games but with a twist. Feel free to check it out.**

**Anyway. Shameless self promotion over. Enjoy the chapter :)**

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I wake up on the morning of the day before interviews filled with an inexplicable sense of happiness. It takes a few seconds for my memories to catch up but when they do all of yesterday comes flooding back. Part of me still can't believe that yesterday wasn't just some sort of dream, but if it was I don't want the bubble to burst just yet so instead of getting up I lie in bed for a while, half awake and half not.

It takes Willow's knock on my door to jolt me from the uncharacteristic sense of bliss, and when she does I suddenly remember the Games. No, that isn't fair – I'm not completely addled by the new and incredibly badly timed experience. I've never been one of those stupid shallow boy-obsessed girls, and never will be either, not if I can help it. Willow's knock doesn't remind me about the fact that it's very likely I won't live a week; it just helps to bring the danger to the forefront of my mind and pushes thoughts of Rowan back a bit.

Not too far, though. For all I try to deny it, I am still a teenage girl, and yesterday was what everyone classes as a turning point. Horribly timed it might have been, but it happened, and even if it's really stupid of me then I wouldn't change a thing even if I could.

"Johanna dear, are you okay?" Willow asks, voice laden with her usual sympathy. She must think that I'm up uncharacteristically late out of fear for the Arena – which is the day after tomorrow, I realise with a sudden jolt.

"I'm fine, Willow," I reply and try to add a little tremble at the end of it.

"It's breakfast in five minutes. I thought you'd want to know."

I thank her, get dressed, and still make it to breakfast earlier than Rowan, who's his usual morning self. He smiles when he sees me and reaches for the coffee, pouring himself a generous cup before starting on the food.

While Rowan begins breakfast and the rest of us finish it, Blue decides to take charge.

"Right. Interviews tomorrow, aren't you so excited?" His tone suggests that he's anything but. "Look, we've got a day to make you two as sellable as possible to sponsors, and that means looking at this from as many angles as possible. You," he points at Rowan, "you're with me. You, girl, you're with Willow. We'll swap at lunch."

Marianas yawns. "Well, I don't suppose I'll be needed, will I? I think I'll…"

"Go keep finding sponsors," Blue cuts in, glaring. The mentors don't like our escort any more than Rowan or I do, but Willow is far too polite to act on it. Blue, on the other hand, has no such inhibitions. "I doubt we'll get them via interviews," he mutters under his breath.

I pretend I haven't heard him. It's not like I can do anything about what my mentor thinks of me; anyway, if even he underestimates me then everyone else should too. I hope.

After Rowan finishes breakfast (far too slowly for Blue, judging by the amount of impatient table-tapping he's been doing) the four of us separate, with Willow and I going into one room and the other two into another. And so the morning passes as Willow tries to find a suitable role for me to play in my interview.

I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. It doesn't matter what angle she'll finally find that she thinks I can pull off, because I'm going to ignore it and go for 'absolute pathetic weakling' anyway. Willow tries angle after angle, some of which work better than others but that I fake being too scared and bad at acting to do convincingly.

My female mentor isn't the type to give up, and certainly not to show it if she has, but Willow comes the closest I've seen her to being anything but nice by the time we stop for lunch. Her attempts to teach me proper interview decorum fail as miserably as her attempt to find an angle and reduce her almost to tears.

After the lunch break, the mentors swap and I get Blue for the afternoon. He's far less patient than Willow is and is angered the by apparent zero progress we've made.

"What angle are you doing?" he asks, voice turning harder when I shrug. "Come on, you must have something."

I shake my head and he snorts in disgust.

"I think Willow said that vulnerable was what we were going for. She said something about playing on the audience's sympathy," I venture tentatively after several moments of silence.

Blue looks at me, weighing me up in his head. "That won't work," he says flatly. "Maybe if you were twelve or thirteen, but you're too old, girl. You're what? Fifteen? Old enough to look after yourself. And you're tall – you're from District Seven, we tend to be taller than the others."

I know, I want to tell him, that's the whole point. But I don't.

"Vulnerable?" Blue laughs. It's not a happy one. "Not a chance. It's just make you seem even more pathetic than you already do. People'll look on you with disdain, not with pity. They won't even think about maybe wasting their money on you. No, what you need is something else. Quiet, sensitive maybe – you can pull that off, can't you? – but with a core of iron."

He looks me up and down again, observing how I'm slouched in the chair with my default trying not to cry look on my face. "Then again, I doubt you'll manage."

After a while of Blue trying to fit me with angles, with about as much success as Willow had, he finally gives up.

"You're not even trying, girl! You just sit there feeling sorry for yourself, and you don't even try to do anything about it. My job's hard enough with those who do put some effort in – but you're useless. If you don't care enough to try to get a decent angle, then I'm not even going to bother trying to help you. You're as useful as a blunt axe, girl. You'll regret not even trying when you're dead in the Arena!"

Even though I know they couldn't be further from the truth, Blue's words sting. It takes a little less effort than usual to suddenly burst into tears as he storms out of the rooms.

"And stop your crying, girl," he snaps, on the threshold of the door. "It won't help you one bit."

* * *

By an unspoken agreement, Rowan and I both end up in my room after dinner. Like yesterday, we sit in the blind spot of the door, even though it's closed – one thing we can agree on is that if anyone found out about us it would be bad. I put an arm around him and he leans his head on my shoulder and we talk about how the day went.

Predictably, Rowan's interview preparations went far more smoothly than mine did. He's decided to play up his mechanics background and base his angle around that, as well as contrasting his strength with my weakness. He feels a bit bad about still using me this way.

"This is the Games, though," I say. "This, whatever it is, doesn't change that."

He sighs. "You're right, and I know that I'm helping you as well. Even so… I just don't like it."

"It's the Hunger Games. What parts of it are we supposed to like?"

Rowan doesn't answer but leans closer into me. We just sit there for a while, cuddled up, enjoying the physical closeness. After a bit he turns his head, hesitantly, and we kiss again.

When we break away, Rowan says, "do you think we should mention this in interviews? You know, us?"

I shake my head and say "no" emphatically, without really knowing how to express why I think it's such a bad idea.

"Yeah, I thought so too."

"Why?" I ask.

"Well, it'd give them something else to use against us. The other tributes, I mean. They'd have an emotional advantage over us, and in somewhere like the Games I'm sure no one would hesitate to use it."

He sounds very happy to be expressing his thoughts in words, and I get the feeling that he isn't entirely sure why he doesn't want anyone to know either. I know Rowan, know how he dislikes basing decisions on emotion alone, even if he's been doing a lot of that lately. Giving him the chance to speak gives him a way to justify his instinctive response. I'm glad of it too, really.

"Don't forget the Capitol when you say 'them'," I point out. "They're the ones running the show, after all."

"Yes, and imagine the show we'd give them," says Rowan. "Star crossed lovers-"

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Yeah, well they would. Melodramatic to the extreme is the Capitol. Anyway, can I continue?"

I nod, and he does.

"Star crossed lovers, doomed to meet only days before their demise. They'd have a field day. We'd have tons of sponsors. But I can't stand the idea, because I know that it'd turn everyone else against us, make us a target. There's something else too," he frowns. "I can't quite put my finger on it, but I know there's something really really bad that would happen if they knew."

"What, that they'd use us to make the Games more dramatic?" I say. "Play with our emotions to get a massive viewer response and then kill us both at the end? Sounds exactly like them, doesn't it?"

"Yes it does. I can already imagine loads of different ways to do it, too… Let us team up at the start, use traps to stop people killing us if we're not together, let the Careers capture one or both of us, tell us that we can both live then change the rules and make us fight to the death, use traps or other tributes to kill one of us while the other watches, make one of us chose between our life or the others – and I'm not even a Gamemaker."

"Maybe you should be one," I tell him, smiling to show I'm joking. "I didn't think of most of those. But no, that just proves it. No way that anyone but us knows about this."

It's also bring far too much attention to us, I think, and that's the last thing I need. My entire plan for Arena survival depends on only being noticed for how pathetic I am – if Rowan or I did tell the world, it would be bye bye Johanna Mason, it was nice knowing you.

And as much as it hurts me to admit it after yesterday and today, I still value my own skin quite a bit above Rowan's. It's not going to be pleasant; it's going to be every bit as bad as Aunt Aspen dying, or my parents, or Ash. (Especially Ash, I think, bitterly. Why on Panem did you go and die, you moron, you complete and utter Snow-endorsed idiot? You were my big brother, you were supposed to look after Vince and I, but you went and died and left us to fend for ourselves. I was barely reaping age, hadn't even been to my first one. And you went and got yourself killed.)

But I know what grief feels like; I've experienced it before, far too often. Leaving Rowan for dead in the Arena isn't going to be pleasant, not at all. He was the first person I ever met who made me feel special, different, the first crush I ever had, and now it's either me or him. Or neither, probably.

If it does come down to that, me or him, then it'll be me, but there's no way I'm going to be happy about it. No way. The hatred for the Capitol I've been nursing in the back of my head ever since the day Peacekeepers killed my father grows quite a bit stronger.

"Are you okay, Johanna?" Rowan asks, apparently noticing something off about me.

"Just thinking about how unfair our situation is," I say. I won't tell him more than that – I _can't_ tell him more than that.

"I know it is. But hey, you were the one who told me that there's no point dwelling on it all the time." He grins, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Best enjoy ourselves while he still can. Forget about everything else for a bit."

So he kisses me again, and then I kiss him, and we forget about the outside world for a bit. It's not nearly long enough, but it'll have to do.

* * *

The day of the interviews is overcast, with thunder cracking in the sky and lightning flashes illuminating the too-flash surroundings of the Training Centre. A fitting atmosphere for what might be my last full day alive, I think.

"It's almost like the weather is following the plot of the Games," Rowan observes at breakfast after a sudden rumble of thunder makes everyone jump and him spill his second cup of coffee.

Blue laughs. "Maybe it is. I heard that in District Three they can make a machine that controls the weather – what do you think, Willow?"

"I've no idea," the older mentor replies primly. "Ask Bastin sometime – you know he's friends with Beetee Actlan. He's more likely to know than I am."

"Yeah, he is," Blue says with the air of someone remembering something unimportant. "No idea why he likes hanging round Volts though. I find that guy creepy as. Too much time stuffing round with electricity and not enough time in the free air, that's what I reckon."

"You should be nicer," Willow chides him. "Everyone says that Beetee's one of the most intelligent people in the country."

"Maybe, but he still gives me the creeps. It's that way he has of looking at you over his glasses, I reckon..."

Rowan looks up from where he's attacking his eggs with gusto. "I think that the Capitol does have a way of manipulating weather, but only in closed environments. That's how the weather in the Arena always seems to suit whatever the Gamemakers want it to do. They wouldn't have any way of changing the weather outside though, unless the whole of the Capitol is really in a giant forcefield."

I wouldn't put it past them, I think to myself but say nothing.

Blue looks at Rowan with suspicion. "And how do you know that, boy?"

"My dad gets magazines from District Three sometimes. Technical ones, you know, to help him with fixing the mill. I read it in an article in one of them; we got it for the other parts and obviously that wasn't seen as anything worth censoring."

His mentor grunts with approval. "You're smarter than you look, boy. Remember to show those brains tonight and you might get a nice bit of money heading your way." His gaze turns to me and he frowns. "You, girl, have you found anything to go with after our talk yesterday?"

I shake my head and try to look fearfully up at him. "No, sir," I say timidly.

Blue shakes his head and turns away. "Useless, that's what you are. Well, just try not to hit too many of the wrong trunks tonight."

"I'll do my best," I say, trying and mostly succeeding to keep the sarcasm of my voice. It must not work completely well though, because he looks at me oddly before turning away again and Rowan kicks me under the table.

"Really, Blue," Willow says, glaring at her fellow mentor, "is that any way to treat Johanna? Can't you see the poor girl's scared stiff?"

"Yes, I can. She's terrified – too terrified. There's something off about that girl, I tell you. She's fifteen, for Snow's sake, but she's more pathetic than any twelve year old I've mentored!"

"Blue." My normally sweet and docile mentor turns her voice to iron. "Shut up. You're not helping the situation at all. If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say it. Or just go away – can't you see how much you've upset her?"

True to character, I've allowed myself to start crying again. "Willow, why does Blue hate me?"

"Hush, dear," she tries to reassure me. "Of course he doesn't hate you – it's just tough for him, this mentoring…"

Luckily for me, our stylists arrive at that moment to take Rowan and I away for the day. Watching Willow trying to justify Blue's actions in her nice person speech is very amusing, but not very conductive to staying in character. I can't believe that she seriously agrees with everything she's saying, but either way a lot of internal sarcasm is inevitable.

Still suppressing my outward mirth, I'm led away to where my prep team and then my stylist spend the good part of the day working on me. The end result is me dressed in a simple but not bad looking forest green dress that ties up behind my neck and matching high heels with such a small point that they can probably be used as a weapon. That's one point in my favour – I have no idea how I'm going to manage to walk in them without looking like an idiot.

Unfortunately, the rest of the outfit isn't in my favour. The dress doesn't actually look too bad, and when it's combined with the way my prep team have tied my hair up on my head I actually look older than reality. Well, that makes my plan harder.

So when I'm finally released from the evil clutches of the Capitol people I proceed to ruin the look they envisaged for me. Forced tears stream down my cheeks, smudging the makeup they put on me; I scrub my eyes with my hands, smudging it further. Finally, I mess up the elaborate hairstyle, pulling out several strands of hair to frame my face instead.

When I look at my reflection in the mirrors lining the walls of the room they put me in to await going onstage, I look suitably pathetic. Johanna Mason is ready for her greatest and most important show ever.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, as usual :) I hope you all keep enjoying the story. **

**And so without any further ado, let us begin. Well, continue…**

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We are lined up and marched onstage, where we sit down in a semicircle of chairs facing the camera and the interview set. After a quick introduction by the oh-so-comedic Caesar Flickerman (this year decked out in hot pink) Amethyst is brought up on stage and the interviews proper begin.

I zone out through her interview and don't really learn anything of interest – she seems to be going with a cunning Career angle, which would probably work better if she actually was. Then again, maybe that is her point, and she's trying to get the other Careers to think she's stupid to better backstab them later. I doubt it though. Ah well – it could be worse, she could be completely unoriginal and be going for attractive.

Next is Glint, who's determined to play up scary ruthless Career as much as he possibly can. When asked about his reasons for volunteering, he says something about District One needing a fourth winner in a row and him being the best person to do so. I roll my eyes. In it for the power and the glory, how typically Career. Do any of them have an original thought in their lives?

District Two both try to go with their traditional roles, and while they don't do horribly they're overshadowed by Glint and by the memories of anyone who's watched practically any other Hunger Games.

District Three comes straight after them, and the girl actually does a decent job at being cold and logical. Her District Partner, who looks a couple of years younger than her, isn't anywhere near as good, but still saves himself from total patheticness by playing up the fact that he'd been selected to go into what he calls Factory One once he turns eighteen. Apparently it's a great honour in their District and only given to the smartest of the lot.

I don't get much of an impression off District Four, who are about as good as Two was. By this stage it's pretty clear that the main Careers to watch out for are District One and it probably doesn't help that Glint at least seems determined to carry on his District's winning streak.

Next is District Five's girl. From what I've gathered she was the one who had the idea of a non-Career alliance in the first place, so I watch carefully and somehow get the feeling that I'm not the only one doing so. I'm less impressed by the end of the interviews, though – she speaks a lot of idealistic nonsense about teamwork and being able to overcome even the biggest challenge by working together.

Didn't she get the memo? This is the Hunger Games and there can only be one Victor, not twenty.

It's always amusing to watch idealists before a fall though, and the girl does have a few decent points, mostly the ones about taking out the biggest threats first. Because I don't have any reasons of my own for wanting people to think that. Of course not.

"First we get rid of the big group likely to kill us," she says. "Then we focus on everything else."

"It should be quite a show," Flickerman replies, probably already seeing the sight of two armies of tributes fighting each other instead of the usual way the Games go.

District Five's boy also tries to get the power of the Unionists across, but doesn't do it anywhere near as successfully. Then I realise that it'll be me very very soon, and don't notice anything that happens during Six's run.

"Welcome, Johanna, isn't it?" Flickerman asks, and I nod tentatively.

"Have a seat, make yourself comfortable."

Without saying a word, I obey. I figure it'll be best to stay as quiet as possible – less of a chance of my not thinking before I speak and blowing my cover to the canopies. With that in mind, I let Caesar Flickerman ramble on and do my best to answer his questions with only tearful nods and even more pathetic head shakes.

After two minutes or so of pointless questions, he reaches: "Do you have any family at home?"

Nod.

"Can you tell me about them?"

Nod.

Silence, so I speak at a broken whisper. "I have a cousin. He's twelve."

"Only a cousin? What about the rest of your family?"

What do you think, moron? This is Panem – no, wait, you're Capitol, life's always been absolutely freaking brilliant for you. Fan-freaking-tastic.

I don't say any of that, of course. Just a very, very quiet "they're dead."

Then I see my chance to add even more weight to my patheticness level, and add "Just like I'll be," before bursting into tears.

"There, there," Flickerman says, trying reassurance. "Cheer up – what must your cousin be thinking? He wouldn't want you to give up, I'm sure."

I sob again, and gulp, and finally stammer out, "He… he k-knows exactly… what c-chance I have."

And with that brilliant piece of double meaning, the buzzer sounds and my interview is over.

Rowan is next, and is every bit as amazing as I knew he'd be. It probably doesn't help that he follows straight after the most pathetic act of the century, but even aside from that he plays his part perfectly. I can just sense the sponsorship money flowing.

After us come District Eight, only notable for their continuing endorsement of the Unionist idea. Then Nine, who make no impression at all, and Ten, who do the same trick as the other Unionist Districts. The boy from there, Crow, looks like one of the strongest non-Careers and has an interesting interview to match it. Take when Flickerman asks him about how he'll fare in the Games.

"Well the way I see it, I'll be fine. People are just like animals. You just need to know how to deal with them, and then there's the fighting. I've never killed a person, of course, but I can't think that killing humans will be any different to slaughtering pigs or cows or sheep."

"How so?" Flickerman asks, looking interested. It's obvious though, isn't it – animals are sent into slaughter houses to be killed, not standing a chance. That's what the Capitol is doing to most of us tributes.

Apparently Crow doesn't share my thoughts. "There's the obvious – you cut us, we bleed, you cut them, they bleed. It'll be the same actions, just on a slightly different form. And there's the psychology of the thing, of course."

"Yes?"

"Well, when you're trying to control a herd, first thing you do is take down the big guy, the head. Show him who's boss, and the others are easy to manage here. Same principle here – get rid of the big guy first."

* * *

To my great surprise, I do actually get some sleep that final night before that Arena. It's still nowhere near as much as it should be, but it's better than nothing. Nerves seem to accelerate my normal early waking, which is why I'm awake when a quiet knock is heard on my door at about three thirty a.m.

It's Rowan, of course, and he hugs me the second he's inside my room. Hugs me very, very tightly, and doesn't show any sign of wanting to let me go in the near future.

"I asked Willow what time we get picked up to head to the Arena. She said five, and also said that us tributes won't see each other again unless we bump into each other during the Games. So I figured I'd better go see you and say goodbye properly."

I don't say anything to that, just squeeze him harder, and so for what seems like an age we just stand there holding each other and not speaking. I don't think either of us wants to – with words we'd have to acknowledge that this is probably the last time we'll see each other.

Eventually our legs wear out, so we sit down on the edge of the bed and end up holding each other again. We sit there in silence for what must be quite a while, and the whole time I'm soaking up the feeling of being with Rowan like this. Somehow we end up lying down on the bed, still holding each other, not doing anything else. Clinging to each other, almost, afraid of what it'll mean when we have to let go.

Far too soon Rowan looks up at the clock and says that he'd better be getting back to his own room soon before people come and notice him missing. I know he has to, and agree, but he doesn't make any move to extract himself from my grip and I don't try to make him.

"I really had better go," he says a minute or so later, and this time he really does get up.

Just before the door though he stops and we hug again, tighter than ever. Then he looks down and I look up and we end up kissing again, a more intense kiss than the others. Harder, more frantic, almost desperate.

When the kiss ends he squeezes me a final time but doesn't quite break away from the hug.

"Best goodbye I've ever had," he says, and I agree wholeheartedly. Probably doesn't help that every other time I've never had a chance to say goodbye.

Then Rowan's gone for the last time, and I'm left with only the memory of his presence to indicate he was ever here.

* * *

They come for me at exactly five in the morning, just like Rowan said they would. My stylist throws a simple white shift at me and orders me to put it on, staring at me the whole time. After I've pulled it over my head, I'm guided to the elevators where he hits a button I hadn't noticed before. We step out onto what must be the roof of the Training Centre to find a hovercraft already waiting for me.

I step onto the ladder to climb onto it and find myself frozen into place somehow. The Capitol people looking after me take advantage of the situation to stab a large and very nasty looking needle containing a tracking device into my arm. I've still got to keep my act up, so burst into tears at the sight of it.

Once they let me go we're guided to a room with three walls made of glass to show the view and I'm ordered to eat. I do, even though my appetite is nonexistent. Round my part of District Seven you eat everything you can get, when you get it. Mrs Woodshall doesn't take kindly to food wasters in her Community Centre.

My arm still hurts by the time the windows black over ages later to indicate we're almost at the Arena, and I hope it'll clear up soon. I really don't fancy my chances in the Games if I don't have a full range of movement in my arm.

Maybe ten minutes after the windows black over we land and I'm guided out the hovercraft into the catacombs under the Arena. In my Launch Room a pile of clothes has been neatly placed on a chair and my stylist looks at them disdainfully before shoving me into a small adjoining room and ordering them to put them on.

I look curiously at the clothes I'll be wearing in the Arena, hoping that I can get a hint of what I'll be facing out of them. But after seeing them, I'm disappointed – they're far too generic to let me make an educated guess.

I have standard issue Games underwear. No idea why – I mean, it's not like we can smuggle anything in with them, but that's the Capitol for you. Over that, there's a royal purple sleeveless top and black cargo pants with a black fabric belt. A black hooded jacket tops off the outfit, as well as black running shoes and thin black fingerless gloves. Overall, not too bad. The cargo pants have pockets everywhere, and the two jacket pockets have zips in them. The outfit is comfortable and the jacket seems relatively warm and lightweight.

I go back into the main launch room, where I drink water and force down a bit more food while I wait for the signal to go up into the Arena. The wait is horrible, and by the time we finally get the call I'm so jittery I can't sit still.

But finally it does come, and my stylist hands me back the crudely hewn ash 'J' that's my token. I'm guided to the launch pad through a gap in what used to be the wall and stand there for what feels like forever but is probably only ten seconds before the round platform I'm standing on starts to move upwards into the dark.

I close my eyes. It's most likely to be bright outside in the Arena and I don't want to be blinded when I get there. It probably won't do much, but at least this way I get the feeling that I'm doing something.

When I feel myself stop moving I open my eyes, and immediately realise that I didn't need to keep them closed on the way up. There's no light around here for them to adjust to, but at least keeping them closed helped me get a bit of night vision.

I appear to be standing in a cave. The air is cold and damp. Flickering torches on the wall positioned between each tribute in the circle are the only light source, but they're far enough away they I can't feel any heat. About a metre ahead of me is a backpack; after that, there's nothing between me and the Cornucopia flickering golden in the torchlight.

When I glance around the circle of tributes I see that everyone else also has a backpack in easy reach. That's odd; usually the Gamemakers don't give people such easy reach to supplies. A thought hits me – because of where I'm standing I have no idea what's in the Cornucopia. What if these packs are the only supplies we have? That won't last very long.

Then I look around and realise that they don't need to. The cave seems to be perfectly rounded other than a few shallow notches in the walls, and no light comes from anywhere but the torches. I don't know caves, but you'd have to be pretty stupid not to realise that that means no escape. These Games are going to be over before they're even begun.

With the anthem in its final verse, I look frantically around the circle of tributes to see if I can find Rowan. He's hidden behind the Cornucopia, though. I'll probably never see him again. I swallow down the lump that forms at the thought, and then the gong sounds.

Chaos. That's the first thing I'm aware of. Complete and utter chaos.

I take a step forward to grab the pack lying at my feet. A small part of me registers that it's purple; the rest of me is panicking too much to care.

Behind the tributes I could see was what had looked like a smaller cave. The thought barely crosses my mind before I'm there in the one that was behind me, squeezing in as much as possible, the purple pack clutched to my chest protectively to shield as much of me as possible. Hoping no one will find me here, not when there's a raging battle already going on.

A knife is strapped to one side of the pack. I pull it out and feel a bit better that I at least have a weapon with me.

At the Cornucopia, the first body falls to the floor. It's only a matter of minutes until these Games will be mostly over. This was so not the type of Arena my strategy was banking on.

And then, just when I've thought that, the floor begins to crack.

The golden Cornucopia itself is the first to go, its extra weight pulling it down faster. The floor crumbles outwards from there, sweeping everyone taking part in the battle down with it.

The cracks grow wider. Bright light spills in through the holes, burning my eyes. I blink desperately, but I can't close them for fear of being swept away downwards too.

In a matter of seconds everyone on the Arena floor is gone, falling to who knows where. There's only a few of us left now.

And then the ground crumbles away from under me, and I too am falling. Falling, falling, falling.

Falling.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, and you finally have a resolution to the cliff-hanger :) This is probably the last update for a few weeks though – I'm heading overseas for a while…**

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Air whooshes past me and for the first few seconds my reaction is one of blind panic. Then I realise that I'm a while from hitting the ground yet and force myself calm, trying to observe as much as I can about what I guess is the true Arena beneath me. Maybe if I focus on my surroundings it'll take my mind off the terrifying truth of what's happening.

Underneath me is what I've always imagined a forest would look like from the sky, a perfectly flat plane of tangled trees. Exactly in the middle of the land is a perfectly round lake with four rivers leading off it at right angles to each other, and in the centre of the lake is a perfectly round grassy island. The plane of land underneath me seems to curve off at the edges, but when I try to get a closer look it doesn't anymore. I must be imagining things.

Because I'd been standing near the wall when the cracking started, most of the other tributes are below me and as I watch one grabs another's foot and the two of them start fighting mid fall. It's just as the one who started the fight stabs the other one in the chest that the parachutes open.

I'd been clutching my backpack to my chest when we fell, but luckily watching it happen to the people below me gives me the few seconds I need to twist around in mid air so that my back is to the ground. Just in time I manage it, and even then the twisting momentum I still have causes me to swing nauseatingly under the purple parachute before it stabilises and I fall straight again.

The flow of air around me slows down, and some of the tension I'd been feeling lifts. There's ground underneath us; it's not like they're going to make us fall forever and keep fighting in freefall, and they don't want us all to die when we hit the ground. Even so, it's still nice to know that for certain, even if I have no clue how to land with one of these things. Especially not in this position.

It takes a lot of willpower to break my grip on the backpack which is the only thing stopping me from splattering everywhere when I hit the ground. Trying not to think about what will happen if I lose my hold on it, I clutch the backpack to my chest even tighter with my right hand while my left snakes between the pack and my body to reach into the same strap my right hand is in. It strains my chest muscles a bit, not to mention my still-sore arm, but I manage to get my left elbow into the strap with the left hand holding it tightly.

Then, not stopping to reflect on what will happen if this doesn't work, I remove my right hand from the pack. For a few terrifying moments I dangle underneath the parachute feeling like my grip is slipping, and then with the help of my now freed right hand I pull the strap firmly over my left shoulder and wedge part of the pack between by elbow and my side.

The strap digs uncomfortably into my collar bone and this is still very dangerous – and unstable, causing me to swing around quite a bit – but at least I'm past those worst moments of utter fear and insecurity. I flail my right hand around behind me for what seems like far too long before I find the other bag strap and grab onto it. It's awkward work, trying to get my arm into the strap from that position. Finally, though, I manage to get it halfway up my arm and that's when I feel finally secure enough to loosen my grip with my left hand and help pull the strap up and over onto my shoulder.

Safe and secure with my heart still pumping from that tricky manoeuvre, I take a few seconds to glory in having pulled it off safely. Then I realise that I'd better check how close I am to the ground and finally look down properly, seeing it again.

Instead of the ground, though, what I can see now is a multitude of different coloured circles. Each District has a different colour, and the number is printed on the back of the parachute. District Nine is orange, Twelve is black. Five is yellow while Four is a greenish-blue and Eight is a dark blue. I see another purple parachute steering away from the main group and know that Rowan must still be alive and is already planning how to keep it like that a while longer, something I am very happy about.

A pink parachute with the number six on it rips apparently inexplicably and the person supported by it tumbles to the ground. When it happens again, this time to someone from Eleven, the person is closer to me and I can see what looks like a knife fall through the parachute.

It must have been thrown deliberately, and provides the well-timed reminder that even in mid air this is the Hunger Games and still very very dangerous. I need to figure out a way to steer this parachute away from the others, before they kill me too.

So I feel my way around the backpack and try to find some sort of steering mechanism. Just when I'm about to give up and begin planning to just run like Snow once I land, I notice two handles on the top part of the straps. I pull them and they extend outwards on ropes until they're where it's comfortable for me to reach.

After a bit of experimenting I figure out how to use the ropes with handles to steer the parachute, and so spiral away towards the ground away from the main group of tributes. It doesn't get me far away as quickly as I would've liked, but it still does something and by the time I notice how close the ground is and focus on trying to land this thing properly I'm a reasonable distance away from them.

It's only when my feet are brushing the treetops that I realise that the Gamemakers probably designed this Arena the way they did on purpose. Throwing us all to the ground means that the audience doesn't get the bloodbath that they like so much, so the only unforested bit of the Arena is the clearing with the lake and the island that we were all falling directly above. It means that people need to stick together or else not get a landing space.

Pity I didn't think of that until it was too late.

So I fall straight into the trees, and it hurts. Thin branches and leaves scrape past me, and although I'm no stranger to falling through trees it's a lot more painful when it happens from freefall as opposed to from the top branches of the same tree. The straps of the pack dig into my shoulders even more painfully than they did before as I stop abruptly. I don't mind the pain much though, because dangling there in the air with my face inches away from a large, very hard looking branch is a lot better than landing on it at the speed I was going.

Now I'm stuck though, and soon enough someone else is going to find me if I don't get down soon. The bloodbath can't distract people forever, although it should give me half an hour of peace, if I'm lucky – it'll be a lot smaller than most years, I'm guessing. And I'm practically a sitting duck just hanging here.

My hand goes to my belt and the amount of relief I feel when the knife I stuffed in there before the ground collapsed under us is probably larger than anything I've felt before in my life. I ease it out, very careful not to drop it, and then get to work at cutting through the strings connecting the parachute to my pack

It's an awkward angle to work at, and it's only after five minutes of sawing that I realise that there's a much easier way to do this. Carefully I unhook my arms from the bag straps and drop all of three inches down onto the big branch under me. From here it's a much easier angle and the work goes much quicker than it did before.

I still have to be careful not to overbalance, but I've been up and about in trees practically since I could walk - climbing is almost second nature. Hasn't stopped me falling a few times though. It just means you get very good at landing.

Once the pack is freed, I put it back on and start climbing down. It'd be much easier to throw it to the ground and climb after it but I'd rather have the supplies that I picked up – assuming there are any in the bag – on me at all times. Maybe it's a bit paranoid, but I'd rather my strategy didn't fail just because I run out of food and starve to death before there are few enough people to start fighting properly.

Getting down the tree is a bit slower than it'd usually be because of the pack. I get down easily enough though, pick a direction at random and start walking quickly. The parachute in the tree is like a big purple flag telling everyone where I am, so the further away from it I am the better. I don't run, though, both to conserve strength and because I'm utterly disoriented after all the spinning around in the air. For all I know I could be heading straight back towards where the cornucopia landed, and I'd rather not be running if I find that out.

I must have been walking for about five minutes when the cannons sound to indicate that the bloodbath is over. It's hard to be sure if I didn't miscount, but it sounds like there are eleven of them. So just under half of us are dead. About average for a bloodbath, but kind of unexpected when considering the fight in the cavern and the people who died during the freefall.

While still walking I take a moment to wonder who died. Six and Eleven make two, but there are still nine others. I try to remember the blur of coloured parachutes and which colours only occurred once. It's hopeless though, so I give up and decide to wait till evening.

I really, really hope Rowan is still alive.

* * *

It's a well known fact by now that the universe hates me. So really, it shouldn't come as much of a surprise that it's only ten or fifteen minutes after the cannons blast that I almost run into the Careers.

The only thing that saves me is the fact that there's a group of six of them and only one of me, so they're making noise and I'm not. Even then, by the time I hear them coming there isn't even time for me to hide up a tree. I end up diving under a bush as quietly as possible and hoping like Snow they were making too much noise to hear the inevitable crackling.

"Why couldn't you have left me back on guard with Amethyst?" a male voice complains, hopefully covering the sound of my movement.

"And give you a chance to run away with our supplies or kill my District Partner?" says the voice that I recognise as Glint's. "Do I look stupid, District Two? No, you're staying right here where I can keep an eye on you. So stop pretending to complain and suck it up, get it?"

"Who made you the boss?"

I hear the footsteps stop. "I did. If you don't like it, Two-ey, then too bad. Because I'm staying the boss, whether you like it or not."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." This time the voice is female. "None of the rest of us care that you're from Two, because you're nowhere near as good as you're cracked up to be. You're the weakest link, Two-ey. Just remember how lucky you are that we're still letting you be part of the alliance."

A laugh. "Yeah, 'cause you're almost not worth the bother of lugging along."

"Oh, shut up Four. Not like you're any better than he is." It's a different female voice this time – must be the girl from Two.

"Oh, are you actually showing affection for poor little Two-ey? How sweet…" drawls the voice I'm guessing is the girl from Four.

"Shut up!" Glint snaps. "All of you! Do you want to catch anyone or not?"

Too late for that, I think smugly, but try not to let it show. Odds are that the camera would've just cut to me hiding under the bushes. The Capitol must have maximum drama, after all.

The Careers all stop talking, but it's still pretty hard to disguise the noise of five people moving through forest.

"Hey," the boy they're calling Two-ey says such a short time after Glint's order to shut up that they're still in earshot.

"I told you to shut up, District Two!"

"No, seriously, look at that. Looks like someone screwed up their landing," Two-ey sing songs.

"Look at what? I can't see it." It's the boy from Four talking.

"I can though," his District Partner says. "It's one of those parachutes we landed in. You can just see the purple through the trees – there. Must be about ten minutes walk."

So on top of everything else I've been walking at least partially in circles. Fantastic.

"Where? Still can't see it. You sure you're not imagining it?"

"Crystal. Purple's a pretty distinctive colour."

It is too, worse luck. I could have gotten a nice black or green, but no, I got purple. I swear someone up there has it in for me. I should be glad though – if they're looking up, then they won't look down and see me.

"Purple, purple…" Glint mutters. "Any of you remember what District purple is?"

There's silence for a bit and then Two-ey speaks. "Six, I think. Or is it Seven?"

"Can't be Six," his District Partner says. "I killed the boy at the bloodbath myself."

"Yeah, and they're pink anyway," the boy from Four adds. "You kind of remember the parachute you stick a knife through."

"Seven then," Two-ey says. "I'm pretty sure."

"Dammit!"

"Why?"

"I wanted to catch those upstart Unionists, for one. And of all the unaffiliated it has to be Seven," Glint explains. "The boy's the most annoying piece of meat in these Games, other than maybe District Five. But you guys saw him in the interviews, and I spoke to him in the lifts – he actually tried to fight back, not like his pathetic District Partner."

I know the Camera must be cutting to me at the moment, so I try to look like I'm holding back tears.

"He wouldn't be stupid enough to hang around if that was him. And he would've had a while to get away – we can go look, but I don't think we'll find anyone."

"And what if it's the girl?"

"Then we kill her, duh," the boy from Four says.

"That should be easy enough," says Two-ey.

"Yeah, even for you. I get what One said now, 'cause the girl's pathetic enough it doesn't matter if we leave her till later."

As Two-ey protests, I can't help smiling smugly. Obviously my plan's worked – they don't think I'm a threat at all. And they're completely unaware how close to them I'm hiding.

I could jump out now and kill them. I could do it, and take at least one down with me before they realise. But I know it'd be suicide, so I restrain myself and listen to the proof of my success until the Careers are out of earshot.

Once I can't hear the voices or the movement I wait what seems like forever before climbing out from under the bush. It's only when my muscles start protesting that I figure it's safe to move, and when I do start walking it's in a direction at ninety degrees to the way the Careers went. They'll have to go back to camp eventually, and I'd really rather not bump into them again.

I spend the next few hours tramping through the forest in a state of heightened tension. My close encounter with the Careers reminded me that I'm still far from safe, so for now I try to focus on getting as much distance between me and everyone else.

A bit less than an hour after nearly meeting the Career Pack I find a river cutting through the forest. The bit I saw of the Arena from midair had the rivers leading away from the Cornucopia, so I follow it downstream. Soon I'll probably have to leave it again, but for the moment it's probably safer to stay near the water source but get away from the main pack of bloodthirsty tributes than it is to wander around aimlessly.

Anyway, unless I bump into the Careers or the Unionists I'll be fine. I could take most of the others in a fight, especially when they won't be expecting it. It's only if I meet a group that I'll be in trouble, and I know the Careers aren't anywhere near here. And for all I know there is no group of Unionists.

The river bed is stony, and there's usually about a metre of dry stones either side of the water, so I walk along the side of the river and don't leave a mark. For a few hours I walk, unharmed but getting bored and thirsty. Then, what must be three or four hours since the start of the Games, I decide to go through the backpack I got back in the cavern.

Before I even open it, I notice a loop of fabric on the top of the pack with a label telling me to pull it to re-store the parachute. So they can be used again and I left mine hanging in the top of a tree – typical. At least I won't be needing it again, because I doubt the Gamemakers will pull that falling trick on us twice. It'd make the viewing too boring, after all, and we can't have that.

The pack itself is a virtual treasure trove for something every tribute got a copy of. Aside from the parachute function and the two sheathed knives strapped to the sides – I pull the other one off and put it on my belt as well – it contains enough food supplies to last for quite a while, all in the form of lightweight and probably bland tasting ration packs. There's a large empty water bottle, a small box of water purifying tablets, a coil of rope and a thin silk sleeping bag (amazingly not purple) packed into a little storage case the size of my fists pressed together. All in all, not a bad haul. These Games aren't going to be particularly Hungry ones for me.

Not for anyone else either though, I think as I fill the bottle and drop in a purifying tablet. Which means that everyone's going to be fighting fit and relatively healthy for a Hunger Games. Makes sense, I suppose – more action packed battles to amuse the Capitol that way.

I'm not quite sure if that's good or bad. At the moment though, what matters is putting as much distance between everyone else and me as possible before dark. So I keep walking along that river for what must be hours.

Eventually I notice something odd ahead of me. It looks like the ground – and the trees, and the river – just stops for a while. Which is ridiculous, since who heard of not having the ground? It must just be a pretty steep slope, that's it. That'll be nice; some kind of break from the flat monotony of the Arena I've been walking through since my landing.

What's weird is that as I get closer the optical illusion doesn't vanish and I don't see any ground. Just the opposite cliff face of the canyon, and then some kind of blue underneath it, and more blue ahead of me where the ground should be, blue the colour of the sky.

I shrug and keep walking, which is just fine until there isn't any more to walk. The ground just stops, and the river falls off its edge like a waterfall, and I look down into an endless sky.


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey, thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Sorry for the long break between updates – as some of you are aware, I was overseas and didn't have access to my saved chapters.**

**The film referenced in the fourth paragraph is Avatar. Maybe that will help with getting the feel of the aesthetic, even if it's still a pretty tenuous link.**

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It takes a while to get over the shock of having the ground literally end at your feet. For a few seconds I gaze down at the endless blue in horrified fascination, watching the river fall down into nothing.

Then I step back hurriedly and realise that I regret looking down quite a bit. Heights have never really bothered me, not when I've been climbing trees since I could walk, but looking down and not seeing anything there… It's worse than any height, by quite a bit. I'm suddenly very, very glad that I'm not scared of heights, because if this blue void has such an effect of vertigo on me it must be far worse for anyone who doesn't even like being a few metres off the ground.

Safely back from the edge of the land, I look around instead of down. The sight that greets me is half expected but still pretty impressive. This Arena isn't just one forested platter hovering in the endless sky, no, it's a series of floating islands, this one apparently the lowest and probably most impressive of the lot.

Ahead of and slightly above me is what's best described as a sky island. It's big enough and close enough to fill most of my field of vision that doesn't have that never-ending blue in it, and looks like a mass of rock tapering downwards with an almost flat tree covered top. In school, once, for a treat, they showed us all these clips from films before the dark days, and one of them had floating islands in them that looked very kind of like this one.

If the Gamemakers went to all the bother of making something that big part of the Arena, then I reckon there must be a way to get across to it. All I have to do is find out how, because I really don't fancy my chances stuck on an island it can't take more than a day to cross with twelve other people who are trying to kill me.

Eleven other people and Rowan, which is probably far worse really. Once again I find myself hoping that he wasn't one of the cannons from earlier. But I force myself to push thoughts of him out of my mind. Dwelling on Rowan isn't going to help either of us.

Now my problem is how to get across to the other sky island. I can't see what looks like any sort of bridge, but that doesn't mean that there isn't one. It just means that I'll have to go looking.

So I top up the water in my bottle and decide not to waste any more purification tablets. I'll take my chances with stretching one a bit further than it's meant to than risk running out completely. Anyway, I'm from the poor part of District Seven – my stomach's pretty strong.

After storing my water bottle back in the pack I leave the river and head across the edge of the world. Just because there isn't a crossing point here doesn't mean there won't be one on another part of the edge, and if I really have gone as far as I can then it'll still help to keep moving, even if only to my nerves.

Sure enough though, after about twenty minutes of trying not to think about how close I am to that blue void or wondering what happened to Rowan, I come across some sort of metal thing standing on the edge on the island. It looks like some sort of clunky old fashioned gun on a thick metal stand, but that's ridiculous – the Gamemakers never deliberately put in any weapons better than a crossbow, and even those have only happened two or three times. Guns kill too quickly to be exiting.

But if it is some sort of gun, then my Games are already won. All I'd have to do is stand here and shoot anyone who comes near while waiting for the others to kill each other off. It's a small island as Arenas go; it wouldn't take too long. If I tried my ration packs could be stretched out for a fortnight and maybe longer. It wouldn't be nice, but I've gone hungry before, and with a gun I wouldn't have to worry about having enough strength to fight properly.

Of course, that's exactly why it probably isn't a gun, and if I start thinking like it might be then I'll only end up disappointed, just like I always do. Instead of wondering, why not just try it?

So I do. After inspecting the gun-thing for a few minutes I think I get the picture of what to pull and what part stuff'll come out of. It's like this thing was deliberately designed to be easy to use. It probably was, really.

I aim the clunky gun-thing into the void and pull the trigger, and a jet of rope with a metal thing at the end flies out and doesn't hit anything. The rope dangles into nowhere. I hope this doesn't mean this gun has a one time usage.

Then I notice a handle thing on the side of the metal box, and by winding it up I realise that I can pull the rope back up. It takes a while – it's a pretty long piece of rope, and thick too – but eventually the rope gun is reloaded and ready to be fired again.

Now I've seen it in action I know how to use the gun-thing, so I aim it at what looks like an identical station on the other island and fire. The rope flies out and starts slowing down. There's a pretty tense moment as I wonder whether it'll connect or not, but it does, with a loud clunk that makes me jump, and then look around frantically to see if anyone noticed. When ten minutes pass and no one comes, I decide I'm safe.

I now have a literal rope-bridge to the other island.

Gingerly, I lean over and test the rope. There's only a tiny bit of slack in it, which is good. The journey over is going to be terrifying, though, and now I really regret leaving my parachute decorating a tree. Though really, I doubt a parachute would do me any good if I fall into the void.

I'm about to start my terrifying voyage over the rope when I have an idea. Quickly, I pull my backpack off my shoulders and rummage through it until I find what I'm looking for. The coil of rope nestled at the bottom of the bag is much thinner than that in the rope-bridge, but it'll be more useful that way.

Wishing I'd paid more attention in the knot tying station back at Training instead of spending all day mooning over Rowan, I loop the rope around my waist and try to tie it there so that it won't break. Then I put the pack back on, quickly loop the rope through it as well so that I'm hopefully less likely to loose it, and tie the other end of the rope to the rope-bridge.

If everything holds then I'll be fine if I fall, but I don't want to trust to my knotting skills, not to hold the weight of a human. Especially not one whose life I happen to be rather attached to. I'd just better try not to slip.

No pressure or anything, right? I'll just get more nervous if I delay this, so I zip up my jacket and climb onto the rope-bridge. I'm not stupid or cocky enough to try to walk across, though. Instead I lie on the rope, almost hugging it, and use my feet to push myself forward and my arms to pull me up. It's a good thing we got given those gloves, because without them my hands would be in tatters from rope burn.

I'm only about a metre into my crossing when I look down, and the sight of nothing but the void underneath me causes the world to spin and my body to freeze up. My eyes snap close and I stay there, not moving, hugging the rope for what seems like forever trying to force my muscles to unclench.

Finally I can move again, and with my eyes still closed manage to start inching across the rope-bridge painfully slowly. I don't know how long it takes me to get to the other side – it must not even be half an hour, but from the bridge it feels like a slow, terrifying eternity. It takes time, but I get there, and make it across.

When I get to the second island all I can feel is relief. After untying myself from the rope-bridge, I just lie there for a minute, enjoying the sensation and sight of something other than a rope between the void and me.

After the relief of having made it across starts to subside, I realise that I can't just lie here. There might be the blue emptiness between the others and I, but this is still the Hunger Games and for all I know someone might have gotten here before me.

I force myself to the edge of the island and unhook the rope-bridge from the specially built hook it's attached to. The rope just jumps back, and I pick it up again and throw it as far away as I can. This time does the trick and the rope-bridge hangs there off the side of the first island.

The rope gun isn't reloading itself, I notice. Maybe that means that I'm the only person on this island, but better safe than sorry. Better to assume I'm in danger than think I'm not and then get killed.

The sun's beginning to go down. I'd better camp soon. Even so, I don't want to do it all exposed out here, so I walk a while into the forest before beginning to scan for a decent tree to spend the night in. Finally I find one and climb up into it, and it takes a while but I manage to find a semi-comfortable position in it. I probably won't get that much sleep, but I wouldn't have anyway, and better uncomfortable up here than dead on the ground.

I pull the sleeping bag out of my bag and take it out of its pouch, stuffing that back into the pack. Then I pull the coil of rope back out and hang it on a nearby branch. A ration pack comes out of the bag too and shoved into a pocket, and then I dump the backpack into the bottom of the sleeping bag, which is a lot stronger than something that thin looks, luckily.

I climb in after the bag, grab the rope and wind it around myself, the sleeping bag and the branch we're on. I'm a restless sleeper, and I'd rather not fall off the tree in the middle of the night in the Hunger Games.

I'm just starting to open the ration pack my stomach's been craving for the past few hours when the anthem plays. Surprisingly enough I can actually see decently well through the branches – maybe no facial detail, but I can still make out the gender and District which is all I really need.

The first face to come up is the boy from District Five, which is slightly odd if only for the fact that both of District Three are still alive. That's about as likely as both of Twelve living through a bloodbath.

Then both from Six. The next face seems to take forever to come up, and when it turns out to be the boy from Eight I breathe a sigh of relief and suddenly notice my heart hammering in my chest. I barely register the next two faces from District Nine, just happy that Rowan's made it past one day.

The next face is the girl from Ten, and then all of the last four tributes. Which was only to be expected, really.

I try to figure out who's still alive. All the Careers, District Three, Rowan and I. That makes ten of us, leaving the blonde girl from Five, Crow and… the girl from Eight? So much for the Unionists – only half of them made it past the first day. But there are still enough of them that maybe they and the Careers will wipe each other out. That'd be nice.

With that thought in my head, I finish off my ration pack and try to get to sleep.

* * *

It's not quite dawn when cannon blasts wake me from an uneasy slumber. I count four of them, and while I was sleeping lightly enough that it's not likely there were any more it's not out of the question that I missed some.

Four cannon blasts – must have been a proper battle. The only scenario I can think of that would lead to that is the Career Pack meeting the Unionists. A bit early for a battle like that though, especially what with it being night and all. Still, it must have been that, because I can't think of anything else it could have been. Unless there was some alliance I didn't know about – but somehow it doesn't seem likely.

I spend the next little while until dawn trying to get back to sleep and failing abysmally. After a night in the tree this position is even less comfortable than it was when I first got into it. The rope digs into me, the branch digs into me, and my muscles are stiff from being in the same position all night. It's the least comfortable bed I've had – back in District Seven I always at least had a mattress, even if I did have to share with Ash until Vince moved in and then Aunt Aspen till my father died.

By dawn I've given up on any more sleep and am just grateful that there's finally enough light to see by so I can get organised. I undo the rope, coil it up and hang it on a branch while I get my pack out of the sleeping bag and stuff the thin bag into its pouch. I put the coil of rope in on top of everything else in the pack but pull out my water bottle and drink. I can go a while longer and stretch rations but there's no point saving water, not when I know where there's a source.

I don't fancy taking a return trip over the rope-bridge just for water, so I decide to look around and see if I can find some on this island. It is quite a bit smaller than the first one was, because it only takes me a couple of hours to cross. I might not have gone straight through the centre, but I think I probably went close because there's another of those rope turret things when I get to the other side and somehow I get the feeling they're arranged more or less symmetrically around the islands.

There's no water to be found by cutting across the island, so on the way back I circle around the edge of it hoping there'll be some sort of river. This island isn't exactly round, but it comes pretty close. By the time I get back to where I started the sun is indicating that it's already past noon, and I've found a grand total of no water.

I'd been careful with my water supply since starting the trip in case I encountered exactly this problem, and now it turns out that it was exactly the right thing to do. Because when I get back to where I got off the rope-bridge yesterday a completely different view awaits me.

Where yesterday I could see the big island, the void underneath it and one or two other islands high up in the sky, now there is nothing above me or ahead of me but blue. But when I look down, instead of the void I see maybe a dozen other islands of various sizes beneath mine. Right at the bottom of them, far further down than I've ever seen it, is a large perfectly symmetrical island with a tiny splash of blue in the centre. It's too far away to see the rivers, but I have no doubt that it's the first one I saw.

The islands move.

The islands move.

The islands move.

Will this Arena ever stop with the surprises?

* * *

Two hours later I'm back at the other half of the island, again still waterless and with not much left in my bottle. I'm also very hungry, so I finally let myself open another ration pack and sit there eating it, legs dangling over the side into the void.

When I'm done I grab the rope from my pack and do the first half of my tying on procedure. Then I go to the rope-gun turret and aim it at the nearest island, which is very slightly below me this time. It collides with another clunk and holds, just like last time. I tie myself onto the rope-bridge and prepare myself to go through the ordeal again.

This time it's slightly easier, mostly because this time I've learned my lesson and don't look down. The fact that the rope's on a slight downward slope also helps, because it takes far less effort to pull myself along on it.

Even so, it's still a massive relief to reach the other end of the rope-bridge. When I get there, though, I untie myself and unhook the bridge as quickly as possible. During the climb across it occurred to me that if the islands can move, then the Gamemakers can probably control them.

And who knows where the tributes are at all times? Whose job is it to make the Games more exiting? Who spend half their time constructing elaborate methods of bringing tributes together during the Games? The Gamemakers.

So odds are that I'm not the only one on this island. Odds are also that someone heard the clang of the rope-bridge lodging onto it, which is good because if they weren't waiting to trap me then it's someone who doesn't think they'd be able to win in a fight. Even so, best to tread cautiously, so I draw one of my knives and go slowly.

I don't bump into anyone, probably because this island is bigger than the last one. In a longer time than what it took me to cross the last island I reach what is probably the centre, knowing the Arena designer's apparent love of symmetry. It's a bubbling spring maybe two metres wide and, as usual, perfectly circular.

I'm not exactly complaining though and refill my empty water bottle. Spring water's supposed to be pretty clean, but knowing the Games I'd rather not take completely idiotic risks and use one of my purifying tablets on it anyway. There's still quite a few left, but even so I decide to conserve food and water.

The sun is pretty hard to see through the canopy – this island has thicker forest than the others did – so I climb up a tree and notice that it's almost down. I judge a bit less than an hour of sunlight. Staying this close to the spring is a bad idea, though, I figure, and instead head off back into the forest. Again, after maybe half an hours walk I start looking around for a good tree and this time it takes me about ten minutes to find one that should do.

I start arranging out my bed, already not looking forward to another night in a tree, but this time don't climb into it and tie myself in already. Instead, the second I hear the notes of the anthem I climb further up the tree till I have a clear view of the sky.

The first face to come up is the girl from District Two. Then the boy from Four. I must admit, I'm impressed. Whoever else it was who died did a pretty good job at taking the Careers down with them.

I'm mostly expecting it, so it's no surprise when I see the face of the girl from Five who was the ringleader of the Unionists. The next, and last, face is Crow's, which would probably explain how the two of them managed to take down an equal number of Careers. Even so, that must have required quite a bit of skill, especially outnumbered two to one like they were. And one of them is still alive somewhere.

The Unionists might have ultimately failed, but they still did far better than I – or anyone, I think – expected. Here's to hoping the last half happens to me.

But not the first. I'm perfectly happy being alive, thanks.


	12. Chapter 12

**And here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy.**

**Oh, and I'm going to take a second to thank whoever it was who nominated me for the Pearl Awards on Mockingjaydotnet - I'm honoured to be rated among the likes of the others on there. You're under no obligation to drop in a review and tell me, but I figured this'd be the best place to thank you.**

**As for everyone else reading this, I highly recomend checking them out - each nominated fic has a link, and all those I've seen so far have been well worth the read. Which makes it even more surprising that anyone even thought of nominating the likes of me, but hey.**

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For the second night in a row the blast of a cannon wakes me up. This is beginning to be quite a bad habit. Looks like all the action in the Arena is taking place at night, which makes me very glad I can climb trees, no matter how uncomfortable trying to sleep in one is. I bet most people wouldn't be hiding up in one, and in a Games with this amount of night crawling staying on the ground makes you easier to find. Especially with the Gamemakers moving the islands.

I wonder who the Careers got this time. As I seem to have been doing since getting in here, I find myself desperately hoping that it was anyone but Rowan.

Which is a bit stupid of me really. He's going to have to die sometime, and this'll save us both the heartbreak of being the only two left alive. But the stupid sentimental part of me that got me into this mess in the first place doesn't agree, and it's the part that's hoping against hope for a miracle to happen.

It's difficult to get to sleep after the shot but somehow I must manage it as when I wake up it's already light out. I pack everything back in my bag and half drain my water bottle, because today I have a water source within reach and I'm not going to waste time looking for another.

Back to the spring I head. Somehow the forest looks different in the morning, even though I doubt the Gamemakers can or want to go to the bother of actually changing it, and it takes me over an hour to find what was only half an hour's walk yesterday. Eventually I do find it though and fill up my bottle after finishing the little layer of water sitting in the bottom.

I can limit myself to one ration pack a day, probably less if I need to. But while I still have water handy it's best to drink as much as I can. The body can survive longer on no food than on no water; that's one of the first things you learn when there's barely any food to go round. If I start running out of food rations then I can cut down what I eat. It won't be fun, but I can do it. Water's a different story.

Luckily I get the feeling I won't be needing to limit my food supply, Hunger Games or not. This is only the third day, but there were only nine of us alive after the recap yesterday. With that cannon shot I heard earlier there are only eight of us. The top eight in only three days. That's got to be a new record.

And I'm one of them. The poor scared pathetic Johanna Mason, in the top eight. Who would have thought it? Certainly not the Capitol audience, that's for certain.

I allow myself a quick grin at how my plan is going. So far I've been completely left alone, even if most of that is probably pure dumb luck. Now I just need to find an opportunity to show the world how wrong they were.

I've learned my lesson from yesterday, so instead of wasting my time trying to double back the way I came I keep heading forward. Soon enough the Gamemakers will manage to drive a few of us together, but when they do I'll be ready. In the meantime, it's pointless staying in one place. Drive me crazy from boredom, for one. Oh, and it might force the powers that be to set some kind of trap to make me move, and we don't want that at all, do we.

It takes me almost until noon to reach the other side of the island. If anyone is on here with me then there's no sign of them, and really that suits me just fine. I could probably take them in a fight, but what if it's the Career pack? Or Rowan?

When I get to the island edge it turns out that the Gamemakers have been doing their island shifting trick again. Instead of being up in the endless sky with all the other islands below me, now I'm right in the middle of the bunch. The island in front of me is close enough to block off the sight of any beyond it but somehow I get the feeling they are there.

Water isn't going to be scarce today I think, noticing a waterfall off the side of the next island. So I sit down and eat my ration pack and drink some more of my water, a bit more than I would have usually without knowing where the next water source would be. Then I shoot out a bridge, rope myself up and prepare for another torturous rope-bridge climb.

This one's the worst yet. Halfway across I slip and find myself dangling upside down desperately holding onto the rope. In theory my smaller one should still protect me but I really don't want to test my knotting skills, which are nothing brilliant even if I did spend most of the third day practising them. So I cling on for dear life and keep moving forward, trying to pretend to myself that this is no different from any of the other rope crossings when I was the right way up.

I realise that this isn't working about half a minute later when my feet slip and I end up hanging there in the air, with only my hands and a rope which may or may not hold between me and a parachute-less fall into either the endless void or another island. I'm not quite sure which would be worse.

The fingerless gloves help my grip, but it's not going to last very long. I need to do something now. So I swing around on the rope, and try to grab onto it with my leg as well. My first try fails completely. The second time I get a leg up, but it slides back off the rope very painfully.

It's only on the third try that I manage to get a leg over the rope. Now I'm dangling in a very awkward and not much safer position, which is quite a bit scarier because now my face is looking downwards into the void. The same vertigo from the first time on the rope-bridge seizes me and the world spins alarmingly.

I close my eyes and pretend that I'm only on a rope stretched between two trees instead of two islands in a never ending sky. It works, kind of. My limbs can move again, anyway.

So I force my body to spin around slightly so that I'm centred on the rope instead on hanging half off it. My muscles ache from the strain but I eventually manage it and lie there, hugging the rope-bridge and not moving for a few minutes. Then I decide that the longer I stay on here the more likely it is that something like that will happen again and crawl the rest of the way to the new island.

Once I finally feel land again and unhook various ropes, I head off into the island even though my body wants to rest. There might be someone else on here and if there is they would know exactly where I'm coming from. Instead I head along around the side of the island to find the waterfall I saw earlier.

No one tries to kill me on the way, so by the time I get there I figure that if there is anyone else on the island they're either on the other side of it or hiding out and hoping I'm not the Careers.

One odd thing I do notice about this island is that a bush with bright red berries is part of the forest. It catches my attention because it's the only edible-looking thing I've seen in the Arena all Games. When the ration packs run out we're going to depend on sponsors alone.

I avoid the red berries. If they're the only apparently edible thing to be found then they're probably poisonous. I don't recognise them, anyway, but that's not surprising – District Seven might have trees, but they're generally of the non-fruited variety.

After refilling my water stocks I keep heading around the island. The berries might not even be poisonous. But they probably are, and I have no idea how much. It rubs me the wrong way to think about sleeping on the island of poison. And anyway, the sun's still high in the sky. If I don't keep moving there's nothing else to do.

Maybe four hours of walking later I start to see signs of more islands. These ones are odd – a lot smaller than any of the others I've seen so far. When I get to the metal rope-gun, I notice that for the first time I have more than one possible target. Ahead of me is a cluster of islands, none which can be more than twenty minutes walk to cross and most of which seem smaller.

I choose the island straight ahead as my destination, mostly because it's the one that will have the shortest rope crawl. I don't want to spend any more time over that blue void than I have to.

This trip goes fine although the thought of it is even more terrifying than all of the others were, probably because of my near-miss last time. I walk straight across the island and find another choice of three to make. This time the closest island is the one on the left, so I choose it and cross over as well.

The next few hours are spent island-hopping. Maybe I double back on myself sometimes, maybe I don't. I begin to lose track of where I've been and where I haven't. The group of small islands keep continually rearranging themselves, which doesn't really help matters.

There isn't any water on any of them. I keep drinking, just a bit more slowly. It's not like I'm close to drying of dehydration; I've already refilled twice today. If by the end of tomorrow I don't find another water source then I'll worry.

When I notice that it's about to get dark I find a tree on the island I'm on at the time and start settling down. The girl from District Eight is the only face in the sky tonight; her cannon must have been the one I heard this morning. There goes the last of the Unionists.

All this travelling around the Arena is actually pretty tiring. When I fall asleep after the replay it's the deepest sleep I've had since the night before interviews.

* * *

I am woken just as the sun is rising by the now familiar clunk of a rope-bridge hitting its target. Happy that I had thought to sleep in the tree even though this is one of the smaller and more remote islands in the cluster, I check that everything is secure and out of sight before awaiting the arrival of whomever it is.

I'll stay out of sight, I think. There are still too many of us to chance going down fighting when all I've got is a knife. Unless they have an axe, in which case I'll risk it for the weapon that will be able to save my life.

After this thought passes through my head, I hear voices. There are at least two of them, then, so it'll be what remains of the Career Alliance. Which means there's even more good reason to stay up here – I could probably take someone on their own, but there's no way I'd win outnumbered.

It doesn't take long for the voices to come into sight – I picked this tree on purpose because it had a pretty good range of view over the island as well as being a decent hiding spot. When I do see who they are a mixture of shock and relief hits me.

No, they're not the Careers. Instead, it's the boy and the girl from District Three. The black sheep of the 'upper' Districts, the little smart one sandwiched between the Career Districts who consequently is only better than Nine and Twelve Victor-numbers wise. It's not that common for one of them to make it past the bloodbath, let alone both of them. It surprised me at the time; seeing them in the flesh brings that shock back.

What surprises me more is that they've apparently decided to team up. Am I the only one in the whole Snow-endorsed Arena who hasn't got an alliance with anyone? Doesn't seem to be doing much though – we all know exactly how far the Unionists got. At least they took a few Careers down with them.

District Three seem to be in the middle of an argument and thus pretty focused only on each other. Well, the boy is, at least. The girl responds easily with verbal barbs at least as effective as his are but only seems to have half her attention on the conversation, with her eyes scanning the forest ahead of them. I should be safe, though. No one ever thinks to look up, not if they haven't been brought up around trees.

"Don't you even feel slightly guilty?" the boy suddenly yells, obviously repeating a previous argument.

The girl looks at him and sighs. "Oran, shut up. We're not the only people in the Arena. And no, not really."

"Yeah, but they're all idiots," Oran says. "Anyway, you can't expect me to believe that. You just killed a person in cold blood – of course you feel something."

They killed someone? That was unexpected. Turns out it wasn't the Careers who knocked off District Eight after all. Unless it was someone else, but I don't remember any cannon blasts today. Looks like these two are more dangerous than they look.

"Typical Factory One attitude. Just because you would have been taken away when you turned eighteen doesn't mean you're smarter than me, or all of the others. Sure, none of them are District Three, but it's a statistical improbability that out of twenty two people all are complete morons. Don't act so high and mighty, anyway – you helped kill her as much as I did."

"They're human. Of course they're stupid. And I think you'll find that ranking high enough in the tests to get into Factory One does actually make me smarter than you, Abbie. But I do feel guilty – you're the only one who doesn't. Anyway, you're the one who actually killed her; I just held her down."

Abbie rolls her eyes and leans against a tree a few across from mine. "Stop being such a misanthrope. It doesn't suit you. And I can't believe you never thought of the fact that some of us are smart enough to hide our intelligence from the tests." She avoids the question of death and District Eight entirely.

Oran stops, faces her. Opens his mouth to say something. Abbie casually reaches out and wraps her arm around a perfectly innocent looking vine. And then a massive wooden log falls out of the sky and hits the boy on the head.

He wasn't standing directly under it; that probably would have been a killing shot. Instead it glances off his head and somehow manages to knock him over, trapping him under it. Abbie leans back and smirks, and at that moment I realise that it wasn't an accident. That at least one half of District Three is far more dangerous than expected.

"Help… me," Oran gasps.

"Nope, I'm fine. I think I'll pass."

"But we're… supposed… to be allies…"

Abbie shrugs. "There comes a time where every alliance must come to an end. I believe this is the end of this one."

Something in the way she says it must clue him in, because his face changes. "It… was you… wasn't it?"

"Guilty as charged."

"But… why?"

"I told you," she says. "It was time for this alliance to be over. I want to live, after all."

"But wasn't there… an easier… way to do… it? This way I'm… dying… slowly and …painfully."

"Yes, it's called life," she quips, a tad bitterly. "If it makes you feel better, my aim was a bit off. It should have killed you instantly."

"Gee… thanks." Scientific curiosity hits him. Typical District Three – even when dying, he still needs to know stuff. "How… how did you… do it?"

Abbie seems just as happy to oblige him. "I snuck off when you were asleep and I was standing watch and booby trapped this sky island. Then it was a pretty simple matter to make sure we'd go here in the morning."

"But… the islands… move. How… did you…?"

"Know this one wouldn't? I didn't. There was always a plan B to kill you in your sleep. But come on – did you really think they'd screw up my plan when it makes for such good entertainment?"

I have to admire Abbie, as much as her ability to kill someone she obviously knows in cold blood scares me. She's read the Capitol perfectly, and her mixture of intelligence and willingness to kill could make her a formidable enemy.

Oran is struggling to breathe and his head is bleeding. It won't be long until he dies. Next to him, Abbie pulls out a knife. It's still slightly stained with dried blood, I notice.

"There. I'll even make you go quicker."

He smiles weakly, and then the knife stabs into his heart. A canon goes off, and Abbie pushes the log off the dead body. She pulls off his light blue backpack and walks away, leaving the body for the hovercraft. It is only once I hear the clunk of another rope-bridge being made that I let myself relax.

* * *

Nothing else exiting happens that day. Most of it is more small-island hopping, each crossing as terrifying as the last. Now that I've actually seen someone else, especially someone as dangerous as Abbie turned out to be, it's tenser every time I climb onto a new island. Luckily she seems to have been heading in a different direction from me and the Gamemakers have had enough new material for today that they don't seem to feel the need to make us meet.

Near the afternoon I finally manage to escape from the group of tiny islands and find a relatively large one instead. It takes me the rest of the day to cross it and I decide to camp on it and cross to another one in the morning.

I still don't find water.

Oran's face is the only one in the sky that night, and the memory of his murder makes me struggle to get to sleep. If Abbie had set her trap only a few trees across she would have found me and butchered me while I still slept, so understandably I have trouble losing consciousness.

Once I do get to sleep, though, I wake naturally for the first time in the Arena. No cannon blasts, no rope-bridge clanks. It's almost a relief.

I spend half the next day wandering across a different, larger island. Water is found not on that island but the next, and I notice that climbing across the rope-bridges is actually getting easier. Halfway across it, though, one cannon shot blasts out and the surprise of it almost causes me to lose my grip again.

I'm just climbing up onto the island when I hear another shot. So there was a battle and both sides died. Part of me wishes it was Abbie and Glint, but I know there was probably no such luck. Maybe it was the Careers splitting up – yes, that's likely.

As I refill my empty water bottle and pop in a purification tablet, I notice that I'm thinking about every possible situation but one. No. It can't be. It won't be.

This island is the biggest yet since the one we all landed on days ago, so I haven't reached an edge by the time it gets dark. I lay out my sleeping bag, dump my bag down into it, then climb up somewhere where I can see the daily recap.

The first face in the sky when the anthem plays is Two-ey, the boy from District Two. So maybe it was the Careers splitting up then. Yes, and the next face will be the girl from Four.

But no. The next face in the sky is one I'm very familiar with.

It's Rowan.


	13. Chapter 13

**And so here's the next chapter, which was the oddest combination of fun and not fun to write ever. I hope you enjoy.**

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Even though I knew it had to happen eventually, the news still hits me like a punch in the gut. Rowan is dead. Rowan is dead.

Rowan is dead. Gone. I knew him for barely a week and he's already never coming back. It just isn't fair.

Then again, when has my life been fair? Life isn't fair. I learned that years ago, when I was so young that I can't remember thinking any different. But even so, you'd think that it would give me a break sometime. No one can have karma quite as bad as I have.

But apparently someone can, and that someone is me, because my life has happened and no amount of complaining or denial is going to change that. Accepting my lot doesn't mean I have to like it though, not one bit. And Rowan – on top of everything else? I'm only fifteen, but I've lost more than most adults have.

So I lie there, warm and secure and _alive_. The tree is as uncomfortable than ever, but now I relish it. Let my body feel even a small bit of what my mind is feeling now.

Rowan is dead. I was an idiot. I let myself care. And now look at what's happened. I let myself get close to someone, only to find him gone. Snatched from my grasp. The hatred I thought I had for the Hunger Games before is tiny in comparison to what I feel now. And I find myself hating the other tributes still in the Arena just as much. The logical part of me knows that they're just scapegoats for my anger, but the rest of me doesn't care. They're here. They're where I can get to them. They'll do.

For the first time since I stood there on stage, a lifetime ago it feels, I cry properly. These tears aren't faked for the cameras. They're real, and they hurt, and I wish I didn't have to cry them. And I wonder what's happening again. I haven't cried properly in years.

But then again, losing Rowan is different from losing the others. The others were related to me; I got close to Rowan by choice, and somehow remembering that hurts me more.

With the others I wasn't properly alone. There was always the rest of the family nearby for solace, always the feeling of at least one other person who knew how you felt. But not – now there's no one.

Maybe that's exaggerating – I still have Vince, waiting back at home. But he's in District Seven and I'm in the Arena, surrounded by people who want to kill me. I hadn't noticed what it was like, just knowing that Rowan was still alive. Knowing there was someone who wouldn't kill me as soon as look at me. But now he's dead, and I am properly alone in here.

I don't get any sleep that night. All of it is spent mourning Rowan. Because even if that logical side of mine – the side I hate – knows that it's better he died now than by my hands, and that it would have had to happen sooner or later, the rest of me can't believe he's dead. Doesn't want to.

But by morning I've accepted it, and accepted something else. Rowan wouldn't want me to die in here; he would have wanted one of us to make it out alive. And if it can't be him… then, well, it's obviously me.

Maybe the camera has captured the sudden look of determination on my face. I hope it is. I want all of Panem to see me now, to see how wrong they all were.

Because Johanna Mason has had enough of hiding. She is going to go down fighting, and anyone who stands in my way had better watch out.

I jump out of the tree; pack everything up with firm resoluteness. Today I'm going to let the Gamemakers pull us tributes together. I don't know how I'll find any of the others, but I will, and when I do they had better watch out. They'd better.

As I bend down to pick my pack up my hair falls into my eyes and I brush it off with irritation. It's hard to snap at your own body, but I come about as close as possible without actually yelling at it. Hate to audience to think I'd gone insane instead of determined, after all.

It's annoying me, though, and looking back I remember that this is far from the first time since I entered the Arena. I hadn't been given a tie for it and wearing it loose helped my weak little girl impression, but now I'm over it it's just getting in the way. And nothing will stand in my way, not even my hair.

I may have become slightly deranged. It's a wonderfully liberating experience.

So I pull one of my knives out of my belt, gather my hair up with the other hand and hack at it. It's not going to exactly be the height of Capitol fashion, but too bad. They can fix it when I get out of here. And at least it's out of my way now.

Johanna Mason is ready to roll. Now the audience has a visual way to tell the difference.

* * *

It's all very well and good deciding that you're going to make a stand, I discover. The issue is whether there are any people around to make a stand too. I might have decided to quit hiding and start fighting but it doesn't look like anyone else got the memo; as usual, I don't manage to bump into any other tributes at all.

It takes me most of the day to find a way off this island. When I finally do, it's after making it all the way to the other side, finding that there isn't a way off there and then walking around the edge until I find one. With only five of us alive I figure the Gamemakers will try to round us into a smaller collection of islands so the best way to find people is just to keep moving.

Anyway, I can't handle stopping. Not now. Not when stopping means time to think and remember Rowan. There's still plenty of time for thought when I'm on the move, but at least then I'm doing _something_. I've never been the type to be able to do nothing all day; I just go stir crazy.

So I keep on the move all day. Once I finally find a way off my current island I take it, quickly, and for once actually don't dread the rope-bridge climb. The full focus needed to get across in one piece gives me some relief from the one thought that's been going through my brain non stop all day.

The next island is barely a stepping stone in the blue sky, a barren rock maybe ten metres across stuck between two much bigger islands. It's probably just there because the next proper island isn't in range of the rope-gun or something, but that doesn't really matter. All that matters is that it's there. Instead of groaning at the placement like I would have yesterday, I find myself relishing the thought of danger and the head spinning vertigo. It's a good distraction, if nothing else.

Even so, I stop to eat a ration pack and drink some water before the next half of the climb. I sit there, on my little rock island, hanging isolated in the void. It feels like a very appropriate place to stop.

Brings a new meaning to in the middle of nowhere, huh?

The little island is a brilliant place to stop. It still has this element of fear to it, because unlike all the others it's so small that you can see the sky on all sides. On any of the other islands you can forget that you're hanging in an endless blue void, but not on this one. This one reminds you exactly what situation you're in. Which is probably why I like it. That little edge of fear and danger is exactly what my brain needs now.

Eventually, though, I find my thoughts start heading where I don't want to again. I've overstayed my welcome here, started to get too comfortable. So I fire the rope-gun, tie myself onto the rope-bridge – I might want danger, but I'm not suicidal, or stupid – and head off back onto another island.

This one's another of the bigger ones, though still not as big as that first island below me. By the time I manage to find a water source it's dark, and I camp out for the night in a tree maybe ten minutes from the water.

For the first time since the Hunger Games started, there are no faces in the sky tonight.

* * *

I'm awake before dawn after a restless night and lie there for an hour, trying to think of everything but Rowan and wishing that the sun would hurry up and rise so that I can have enough light to pack up and leave already. Of course it takes its time coming up, just as everything always seems to take too long when you're waiting for it.

Finally, though, there's just enough light to see by, so I pack up and have already refilled my water at the spring by the time the sun's up properly. I pick a random direction and head straight, knowing that I'll reach the island edge eventually.

It takes a few hours but I do, and come face to face with the biggest island I've seen to date. Must be the original island; there aren't any below me, and the sheer size of the thing as well as the waterfall streaming off its side seem to indicate that I'm right.

Even though I can see the island, it still takes me a good hour and a half of walking across the edge of mine before I manage to find a crossing point. A bit before I reach the rope-gun but when I've just begun to see it a cannon shot blasts out across the Arena. So there's one more dead – four of us left now, I think.

We're nearing the end. This thing might just be doable.

Once I'm back on the main island I double back slightly and head towards where I'd seen the waterfall. I figure the Careers would have tried to make the centre lake and island bit their base, which means that there'll either be people to get rid of or weapons lying around. Either way is good for me.

So I find the river, refill my water bottle and head up it. It might be a long walk, but eventually I'll get to the centre, and once I'm there at least something interesting will be bound to happen.

Turns out I don't have to wait that long though. Maybe two hours into my up-river trek I hear the sound of someone moving through the forest on my right, so I move off the river and towards the sound. I've hidden long enough, after all.

It's the girl from District Four, and she must hear me coming as well because she's looking up with an axe held at the ready when I see her. She grins, looking almost feral, when she sees me, but it's the sight of the axe that both unnerves me and makes me even more determined to win. What would a girl from the fishing District be doing with an axe?

"Oh. It's only you, District Seven," she says. "Surprised you've stayed alive this long. Looks like we'll just have to fix that, won't we?"

She rushes at me with the axe but I step aside, pulling one of my knives out of my belt and trying to slash at her. I miss, and she swings the axe, forcing me to jump backwards hurriedly. Even then, it swishes past just inches from my chest and I begin to realise just how out of my depth I am.

I'm fighting a girl who's been training all her life with weapons that I don't even have any experience with. If the weapons were reversed then I could probably take her, but I only have a general idea of how to fight with knives. The three things on my side are the fact that she doesn't look particularly confident with the axe either, my element of surprise and my determination to win. I'm not going to die here. I won't let that happen.

While these thoughts are rushing through my head the fight keeps going. She swings her axe at me; I dodge and duck and try to get close enough to use the knife.

"You're better than I expected, District Seven," she says casually, swinging at me again.

"Don't... want… to… die," I pant, somehow knowing to still exaggerate how hard this is and how hard I am.

"Too bad, District Seven. 'Cause you will. I got your District Partner and now I'll get you too."

The mention of Rowan makes me see red and I jump at her with the knife. The girl slashes with the axe again and I turn away just in time, but not quite quickly enough. The sharp blade cuts into the skin of my arm and I gasp with pain.

The girl laughs. "You might be better than you look but you're still not good enough, Seven."

Try me, I think, and throw the knife. As expected, it doesn't hit and even if it had wouldn't have connected, but it does distract her for long enough to let me pull the other knife out of my belt.

"And you really thought that would work," District Four says, catching the knife by the hilt. "Even I remember how badly you screwed these up in training, how stupid are you?"

I shrug, still circling her while she circles me. Let her think I'm desperate and failing. Any perceived weakness is any advantage for me.

Suddenly she charges forward, swinging the axe at head height. The only way to avoid being decapitated is to fall to my knees, so I do. In one quick manoeuvre District Four gets the point of the knife she caught at my throat.

"Plead for mercy, District Seven."

I hesitate for a second and the pressure on my throat increases. "Okay, okay. Mercy…"

"With more feeling." Her voice is cold.

"Mercy…" I let myself whimper. "Please…"

"Please what?"

"Please… just kill me slowly… Don't let me suffer."

She laughs again. "Oh, District Seven, that is just what I'm going to do."

I see her throw away the axe. At the same time, she slowly traces the knife against my throat, just breaking skin. Pain fills my body and I tighten my grip on the object in my hand.

"Just like I did to the other District Seven," she continues, almost relishing it. "Oh, you should have heard his screams…"

At the mention of Rowan I snap. In one movement I stab upwards with the knife I'd been hiding between my hand and my body. It connects with her stomach and she slumps forward in shock, dropping her knife. Quickly, I kick it away.

She pulls the knife out of her body and tries to attack me with it, the other hand holding her intestines in. I swallow down bile at the sight and grab the axe she threw away.

"This is for Rowan, you sadistic psycho," I hiss, and swing the axe.

It connects with her neck, just as I intended. Her head doesn't fly off; instead the axe lodges itself somewhere in the middle of her throat. It's a gruesome sight, and I feel nauseous just looking at it.

The canon fires. I fight the urge to be sick as I pull the axe out of the neck. She might have turned into a complete monster in here, but even she doesn't deserve a vomit-splattered dead body.

I barely make it. The axe has just gotten free when I feel it coming up my throat and barely turn away in time as the contents of my stomach make their way outwards. I fall to my knees and keep retching, until nothing else can come out. Even then I don't feel much better.

Without looking at the body, I pick up the axe and the knife that's on the ground and walk away.

* * *

When I do eventually get to the centre lake the sun is pretty low in the sky, so I double back for half an hour or so until it looks like I'm at a safer distance from whatever might be there. I set up camp and watch the sky – two deaths today; the girls from Four and One – but it's done with even less enthusiasm than before.

I still don't feel much better. The cut on my arm still hurts and I'm hoping there's some sort of medical kit hiding where the Cornucopia landed. I couldn't stomach the thought of taking her possessions; even the thought of her disfigured body lying there makes me feel the urge to vomit again.

I'm cleaned up from the battle – it was the first thing I did once I felt I'd gotten far enough away from the scene. Even just the act of washing myself helped to make me a feel a bit better about what I did, but nowhere near enough. I already know I'm not going to get any sleep tonight.

If anyone ever said that killing a person is easy they were lying. It's horrible, and it does something to you. I lost my innocence today – which I had, no matter what I'd thought – and I'm never going to get it back.

I've killed, and it's not fun, it's not exciting, it's not glamorous. It's gruesome and dirty and it makes you feel like something less than human.

But at least I can register that fact. At least I feel how bad killing is.

I think of Abbie coldly sticking a knife into her own District Partner, of the girl from Four and her obvious delight in torturing me. They can kill, easily. They don't look like they feel any regret or the urge to scrub themselves clean of the blood or to get rid of the contents of their stomachs.

I might feel less than human, but they're far worse than I am. They definitely are less than human, and they've been like that for long enough that they don't care or notice anymore.

They scare me. I hope I don't turn into someone like that, not ever.


	14. Chapter 14

**Thanks to everyone for reviewing the last chapter – I'm now over 100 reviews :) Woot! :) A virtual prize goes to Gabbie for being the 100****th**** reviewer – thank you very much.**

**100 review attaining gloating over, I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

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The Careers did set up camp in the middle of the first island, but there are no medpacks to be found. Obviously they all carried the kits on them. It's what I would have done so it's not too much of a stretch, even if the way Careers think is so obviously different from me.

On a proper island in the middle of the round lake the Cornucopia has landed. It sits with its tail in the water and its mouth out of it, and would probably be quite a nice sight if I was in the mood to notice nice sights. But I'm not in the mood, so I only pay attention to the golden horn to see if there's anything worth scrounging from there.

By the time I've walked the whole way round the tiny lake it's pretty obvious that the Cornucopia has been emptied. Makes sense, I guess – you don't want to go swimming every time you need to get something. Better to just move everything at once. And that's assuming that the supplies – if there were any – survived the fall. Maybe they're scattered all through the forest, but somehow I doubt it.

After deciding that there's nothing round the Cornucopia I head back to where I'd seen the remains of the Careers' camp. It's not much – most of the things they'd had must have been taken with them at some point or another. There's the remains of a campfire, days old I think, a muddy and bloodstained white backpack – it's empty, to my annoyance – and some blood splatters on the ground and surrounding trees.

The ground's all scuffed up. There must have been some sort of fight here, I figure. And when I look again, I notice a long thin sword half-hidden by some bushes. That's pretty odd – most people don't usually leave weapons just lying around, especially not in the Hunger Games.

Suddenly my senses are on full alert. If there's a weapon then maybe there's someone else lurking around waiting to spring a trap on me. I wouldn't put that past Abbie – I'd almost expect it, after what she did to her District Partner – and Glint might be the type to set traps as well. At least hide and jump out screaming type traps.

Almost before thinking it the axe is in my grip and I'm scanning the surrounding area for any sign of a trap or another tribute. A branch moves – there! I jump at it with the axe, but it was just the wind. There's no one there. It must just be the obvious signs that this place was once a camp that are making me jumpy.

Even so, I still keep on edge. Gingerly I pick the sword up – it's also somewhat bloodstained – and walk to the edge of the small lake. I throw the sword as far as I can and watch it crash down with a satisfying splash. Now there's one less weapon lying around for someone else to use on me.

Still plenty of weapons in the Arena, though. Three of us left and I doubt anyone's unarmed. It'd be too much to hope for that Glint and Abbie kill each other off, wouldn't it?

The Games seem to have slowed down now that we're in the top three. I spend the rest of the day following a different river than the one I came up down to the edge of the island. Staying near the centre lake puts me too much on edge, and moving at least gives me the feeling of doing _something_.

By the time I reach the island edge it's starting to get dark. Nothing interesting for the Capitol happened all day, at least not on my end. I don't think anything happened with the other two either, because at this stage of the Games 'interesting' would mean someone dead.

In the morning I'll keep moving. Soon enough the Gamemakers will get bored enough to figure out a way to force the three of us together. For the moment my only option is to move and hope I run into someone.

* * *

When I wake up from another night of fitful sleeping it's already light. It's the work of a few minutes to shove everything into the pack, keeping a ration pack pulled out. There are still quite a few left and there are only three surviving tributes – I can afford to eat a bit more now. Probably need the energy now too. I munch on the food as I walk along the island edge in search of a rope-gun, and after maybe half an hour's walk I find one.

The issue is what the rope-gun can shoot at. There is an island, but it's as tiny as the one I had lunch on a few days ago. Rocky, barren, less than ten metres across. But if it's the only destination then it must have been put there for a reason, so I shoot out the rope-bride and climb across.

Nothing happens when I end up on the island at first. It's only once I've examined every detail of the tiny island, noticed nothing at all that could help, and begin to look like I'm going to climb back off the island that the Gamemaker interference becomes obvious. The rope-bridge disconnects itself, and now I notice that there's no rope-gun on this island.

I'm stuck.

I don't know how long I stay there trapped on that tiny rock in the middle of the sky. It is long enough for me to begin to get very bored and for my thoughts to start wandering off into territory I'd rather they didn't – Rowan mostly, or the way I killed the girl from Four.

Finally, though, just when I'm about to do something reckless just to drive those thoughts away, something happens. The island starts moving, with me on it. I'm very glad that I'm sitting down, because it starts suddenly enough that if I'd been standing it would knock me off my feet.

I sit there, looking around in half amazement and half apprehension as the little rocky island carries me down and under the Cornucopia island. As we move I pull the axe out of where I'd strapped it to the bag, and feel better for having a weapon in my hands.

Then the moving island clears the bottom of the main one and I realise what's going on.

Across from me are two more of the small moving islands, with Glint standing on one and Abbie kneeling near the edge of the other observing whatever's below us. Each island is about an equal distance apart and we're all converging inwards and downwards onto something – I'm not quite sure what.

Suddenly it strikes me that Abbie might have the right idea. Slowly I stand, move to the edge and carefully look down.

Underneath me, and what the three islands must be heading towards, is a perfectly flat and round island. It's bigger than the one I'm standing on, but still smaller than any of the others I've seen all Games, though it might just look like that because there aren't any trees. Instead, this island is flat and rocky with big boulders strewn about it every so often. Not a bad place to stage a final battle, really, and a three way battle's always so much more interesting than a two way one. For the viewers, anyway.

There's nothing under this island but sky, and even if there was something else my bag doesn't have its parachute. That means it's useless, so I don't put it on in preparation for arrival. It'll just get in the way when I'm fighting, anyway. Instead I make sure that there's a knife in my belt and an axe in my hand, and hope that the other two still think I'll be easy to take out once they've gotten rid of the other.

Now I'd better figure out a way to look as pathetic and non-threatening as possible while still holding this axe. I end up sitting down again, with my knees tucked under my chin and the axe held loosely in my right hand, almost like an after thought. With a bit of luck, it might just work.

Only a few minutes later the small islands arrive at the final one. Instead of rope-bridges these islands just stop moving close enough to the main one so we can step off onto it. Glint steps off his first, then Abbie, who's interestingly still wearing her backpack, and I only climb off mine once it looks like the other two are preoccupied with each other.

Once I step off my island it flies away again, and I notice the other two have as well. So now there are only two ways to get off this arena in an Arena – kill or be killed.

There isn't really enough room to hide out, but I try anyway, figuring both'll ignore me in favour of taking out the person they don't think is a complete and utter weakling first. So I crouch behind a boulder, trying to look just like someone who only lived this long by accident.

It seems to work, because I'm left alone. Glint rushes towards Abbie, who shows she's agile as well as fast and sidesteps him. And so the battle begins.

I watch them duke it out from my hiding spot. They both know I'm here – it's not like it's a particularly effective hideout - but they'll leave me for later. This battle is between the two of them, between Abbie and Glint. District Three and District One. Brain versus brawn.

Abbie with her small stature, dark haired and pale skinned, cunning and smart and cold. She dodges and weaves and runs, always on the defensive, avoiding Glint for long enough to send him into a trap. Not that I can see how she'll have had time to set a trap down here.

Then there's Glint with his hulking size, muscled and red haired, strong and skilled and determined. He charges forward with sword in hand, always on the offensive, ready to kill the moment he can catch her.

And they're both equally monstrous. I remember Glint in the lift, trying to terrify two innocents who would most likely die anyway. Enjoying the effect he had on us. I remember his interview and signing up for the glory. I remember lurking in a tree, watching Abbie cold bloodedly murder her own District Partner because he'd outlived his usefulness. I remember her emotionless determination and Oran implying she'd done the same to District Eight.

They might be utterly different in all respects, but these two are both equally dangerous. They both want to win at any cost. They've both killed before, and will happily do so again. They're both complete monsters.

And, I realise, neither of them can be allowed to win the Games. They say that being in the Hunger Games changes you, and maybe it does. The Johanna Mason who came in here isn't me anymore, and it's not just because I dropped the act. Imagine how the Games could change those who were already terrifying before them, like Glint. Like Abbie too, I imagine.

So I'll let the two of them fight it out, brain versus brawn. Then I'll fight the victor, and kill them. I'm going to win these Games. For Rowan, for Vince, for myself. For everyone in Panem. Nobody ever called me a nice person, mostly because I'm not. But at least I still have a shred of humanity left. Neither of these two do.

So I'm going to win these Games. Because I don't want to die, and because I have to.

I realise the danger in internally monolouging when the battle comes too close to me and I have to duck and jump backwards to avoid Glint's sword slicing off the top of my head. He seems to properly notice me for the first time and raises his sword to attack me instead. I tighten my grip on the axe and prepare to use it to block.

Then Abbie comes in, taking advantage of Glint's momentary lapse in attention on her, and manages to get a relatively deep gash with her knife in his side. This angers him, and probably saves my life. I might be able to take Glint in a fight with the axe and the element of surprise, but not when I'm on the ground.

As Glint chases after Abbie – who is _fast_; especially for a District not renowned for their physical ability, especially for someone still carrying a heavy-looking pack – I scramble to my feet, though still keep the axe hanging from one hand like I don't know how to use it. No sense giving up my advantage quite yet.

Instead I watch the fight, and try to keep out of the way. Glint is stronger, larger, and obviously a better fighter, with a better weapon. But Abbie is agile and quick and takes advantages where she can find them, so the fight lasts a while. Eventually Glint begins to tire out, but Abbie does too.

"Truce for five minutes while we rest?" Abbie asks, barely audible what with the distance and her puffing.

Glint nods, and while he catches his breath Abbie turns away from him and pulls something out of her bag – I can't see what. Quickly she puts the bag back on and starts running again, and just in time because Glint's really just been faking his tiredness and tries to attack her again.

She doesn't run for long, though, just past the next set of boulders. I move backwards a bit; looks like the fight is heading back here. Abbie stands, squares her shoulders, and I notice what it is she's holding in her hands.

It's the firing bit of a rope-gun.

The girl from District Three has managed to use the Arena to her advantage, yet again. She's even more dangerous than I thought. Again. And I thought I was the one everyone was supposed to be underestimating.

Glint comes charging through the boulders, notices what Abbie has in her hands. I can see his expression change; it's almost comedic. Then Abbie pulls the trigger. He doesn't have time to duck.

He doesn't need to; her aim is off. Maybe it's her, maybe it's the weapon – but either way, Abbie's master plan has failed. It takes minutes to wind up the rope gun. If you used it was a weapon, you only get one shot. And she missed. Her back is to me, but I can still see the change in posture as she realises her plan has failed.

Abbie drops the rope-gun and runs. Leftover rope streams out of her bag – it would be almost funny, if it wasn't for the situation. As it is, it's just sort of pathetic. You can see that she's out of ideas and just playing for time. It doesn't do her any good, though, because she might be faster but Glint has more stamina. It takes a while, but eventually Glint catches her.

They're pretty close to me when it happens, so I can hear the conversation between them.

"You can't run anymore, District Three."

"I know," Abbie puffs, "but don't you dare think I'm not going down without a fight."

He slashes at her and she ducks, moving backwards – backwards towards the edge of the island. Slowly Glint manages to back her off until she's only a metre or so from the edge, ducking for all she's worth and trying to slash him with the knife. The hit she got on him earlier was lucky, though, and it's pretty obvious he'll win.

"You're not that good," Glint laughs, when she's almost at his mercy, when the fight has turned from a fight to a show. "How'd you get Amethyst and Thetis, then?"

I don't hear Abbie's response, but it must have been a question, because he clarifies, "District One and District Four."

"I didn't," Abbie says, and doesn't duck quite quickly enough this time. Then she just stops moving in shock. "I didn't, you didn't. So that leaves-"

She never gets to finish her statement, though, because Glint's foot shoots out and kicks her off the edge of the island, knocking her into the endless sky. He looks down and watches her fall with satisfaction.

So now it's down to Glint and I, Glint who seems to be doing the maths a lot more slowly than Abbie did. I creep up behind him slowly, axe at the ready.

"She says she didn't kill the others, but she must've. She was lying. I didn't kill them, so she must've." He stops muttering to himself, and I see his body tense with realisation. "Unless…"

I swing the axe at him. He's a Career though, and trained, so his reflexes are fast enough to help him avoid being killed. He spins around and raises his left arm to block my swing, so instead of hitting his neck the axe just puts a nasty looking gash in his arm.

"Unless I did," I finish. "But no, that's impossible, isn't it? Because I'm p-poor blubbering Johanna Mason." I force tears from my eyes, something that's almost second nature by now. "No, Glint, p-please don't k-kill me. I'm too p-pathetic to k-kill."

While I'm talking Glint tries to attack me, and I parry his sword with my axe. We fight for a while, pretty evenly matched. I need to say something to put him off guard, something to bring back the shock he must be feeling at my reveal.

"You know, District One, there's this brilliant thing called acting. It's what I've been doing all Games. And guess what? It worked. So how stupid do you feel now?"

Glint blocks my axe and lunges forward with his sword. You can see he's surprised, but it isn't impacting his fighting. Well of course it wouldn't, I realise with a sinking feeling. He's a Career, they've probably been trained to put emotion aside during a fight.

"Not stupid at all, because I'm still going to win this. You might have been pretending to be weaker than you were, but I bet I'm still the better fighter. You're still just meat – just maybe slightly tougher meat than expected."

I step out of the way and use the curve of the axe to hook his sword hand, pulling him off balance. At the same time I stick a foot out and kick one of his feet out from under him. Glint goes sprawling, but reacts faster than I'd thought he would and rolls away back to his feet before I have a chance to kill him.

He lunges at me again, and I step aside. The fight continues. We might have started off evenly matched, but soon it becomes clear that Glint's training gives him the upper hand and it's all I can do to prevent his sword from connecting with my body. I have to do something now, and quickly.

Then I have an idea, and can't help grinning even as I barely parry his sword blow. The next time he steps in with his sword I duck the swing. While I do this, I also position my axe between his legs and swing it upwards. Glint is a trained Career, supposed to have a higher pain tolerance than anyone else.

He's also a guy, and he's just gotten a blade to the groin.

Glint collapses to his knees in pain, dropping the sword. I kick it away and then kick him backwards so that I'm standing on his chest preventing him from moving. My axe is at his neck – all I have to do is kill him and I win.

But I hesitate. Killing him now is different to killing him in battle – I have him at my mercy, pretty much. And I don't think I want to kill again, not after what killing the girl from Four – Thetis, she was called – did to me. But I don't have a choice. I have to kill him. Even so, I can't help but hesitate.

The hesitation costs me though. A sharp pain burns through my thigh and I realise that Glint must have had a knife he managed to grab while I waited. The temptation is to drop the axe and clutch at the agonising stab in my thigh, but I grit my teeth and swing the axe down. It cuts into Glint's neck and the cannon fires.

I collapse onto one knee, hands reaching for the wound at my thigh. I've won – why haven't they announced it yet?

Then I remember. Abbie. Her cannon hasn't fired. Slowly, painfully, I crawl to the edge of the island and look down.

Abbie's parachute has opened. All I can see of her is a light blue and black dot against the slightly darker blue sky, and the dot is getting smaller by the second. She falls and falls and falls, and the parachute doesn't do anything because she has nowhere else to go.

Minutes pass. I start to wonder what will happen now – will we just wait until one of us dies of hunger or something? I have lots of ration packs left – I can cope. Hope my wounds don't kill me first though.

A few more minutes pass. Then there's a bright flash of light, and a cannon shot, and when the light is gone there's nothing left of Abbie but a faint wisp of smoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present to you the winning Tribute of the Sixty Ninth Annual Hunger Games. I give you – Johanna Mason!"

As the voice booms out over the Arena I collapse backwards, like a runner after a very long and exhausting race. Then a hovercraft appears above me and lowers down a ladder. I grab on and am frozen in place as the ladder retracts into the white interior of the hovercraft.

Then a woman, in white but not an avox, approaches me and I spin round instinctively, brandishing the axe, pain ignored while I still have an enemy.

"Calm down, Johanna. It's over. You've won." Then, as an aside I'm probably not supposed to hear, "someone calm her down."

There's a pricking sensation in my arm and the world starts blurring. Fuzzily I look down and notice a dart sticking out of my arm, and then the world goes black and I know no more.

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**To all guys reading this – I'm sorry ;)**


	15. Chapter 15

**Thank you very much to everyone who reviewed – sorry that I haven't had time to reply, but my life has just been so hectic lately… Thank you very very much anyway, and I will try to get around to it this weekend – I know it's not compulsory to reply but I quite enjoy talking to my reviewers :)**

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My shift back to consciousness is so gradual I can't remember quite how it starts. At first it's just the sensation of _being_. Then that sixth sense that tells you all your parts are connected kicks in, then sounds fading in, the aural equivalent of the reverse of blackening vision. After the sounds comes proper consciousness, and I realise where I am.

I open my eyes. Light – bright, white and artificial – comes streaming into my vision. My head starts throbbing and I quickly slam my eyelids shut.

"Did you see that?" a male voice asks. "She's awake."

"Good," another voice replies, firm and businesslike. "Right on schedule, then. We can call the mentors in."

"Hadn't we better ask her first?" the first voice says, sounding tentative.

"Yes, I'd think you'd better," I snap, pleased to find my voice only croaking slightly from lack of use. "I'm awake, thank you very much, and _I'll_ decide who I want to see, not you. And get me out of these stupid restraints, will you?"

They've secured me to the bed I'm on. A part of me feels proud at the fact – scared, are they? They'd better be. But most of me is just annoyed.

"After the way you were acting on the hovercraft we thought we couldn't take any chances," the second voice says. Now that I can see again I realise she's the same woman in white I threatened with the axe.

"I'll be more dangerous if you don't get me out of these now."

Yes, maybe I'm going a bit overboard with the threatening Victor thing, but after these past few weeks it's a relief to see someone taking me seriously. And yes, part of me is enjoying the mixture of fear and respect in their expressions.

A small voice in the back of my head asks _what would Rowan say_? I force myself to ignore it, and studiously try to think about everything but him.

It doesn't work.

Acting the pissed off newly-crowned Victor becomes a lot less fun after that, so I stop. It takes all my self control not to do something embarrassing like start crying again. I'm not giving anyone from the Capitol the satisfaction of seeing any emotion from me, let alone those who've already seen me unconscious and vulnerable.

Luckily for my attempts at self control, they really did call in my mentors, who turn up just as my thoughts return to Rowan and the Games.

Blue comes in first, which is probably not the best idea he's ever had. I see the red hair and am halfway to his throat before I even realise I'm reacting.

"Snow, girl," he says, already stepping into a defensive stance. "Take it easy. I'm not your enemy."

"No but you do look quite a bit like Marius' boy Glint," Willow points out calmly. "Don't you remember what it was like those first days out of the Arena?"

"Still. The girl's lethal." He pauses and grins, a sudden idea coming to him. "Hey, if she reacts like that to me, let's sic her on Marchessa Denoro; she looks just like that Abbie chick, and I wouldn't mind getting rid of her. Stuck up twat thinks she's better than everyone else."

"Just like New Girl, then," I say.

Both mentors look at me quizzically.

"The new kid in the Community Centre." I'm glad to have something to focus on that isn't my Games. "She's awful. Thinks she's better than the rest of us just 'cause she's merchant class."

My face is probably almost sneering. I don't care. My hatred of New Girl is something old and familiar, and that's probably what I need right now.

"Who are you and what have you done with little Johanna Mason?" Blue asks, only half teasing.

"As I told your fellow ginger, I was acting. You know, when you pretend to be something you're not?"

"Can it, Mason," he says. "You might have just won the Games, but until you get back home we're still your mentors. Show some respect."

I open my mouth to say something sarcastic in response, but Willow steps in, obviously sensing a fight brewing.

"But Johanna, why didn't you tell us? We're your mentors, we could have helped."

I roll my eyes. "Oh yeah, and helped how? By using it to get me more sponsors? Because that is such a brilliant idea."

Blue looks like he wants to hit me. "I think I preferred you back when you were acting."

"Too bad," I snap, and Willow steps in again.

"How is that such a bad idea?"

"Because they're Capitol," I say, ignoring the glares the nurses in the room are giving me. "You think they know how to keep their mouth shut? They'd let it slip to one of the other mentors in some other sponsorship meeting, who'd tell their tributes. And then I'd be dead, and I kind of like being alive, thanks."

"It wouldn't have been like that, Johanna."

"Oh yeah? How do you know?"

As Willow tries to find words, I continue.

"Nope – the only person you can rely on is yourself. So I did."

"What taught you to be so…" Willow asks, not quite managing to finish her sentence.

"Life," I snap.

I don't add that I'm probably even worse now than before I went into the Arena, because there are some things no one but me ever needs to know and Rowan is one of them. Well Vince'll probably find out with that way he has of telling when something's up, but I'm still not volunteering information. Certainly not to one of my oh so helpful mentors.

There's still something in my tone that much catch their attention, because Willow looks at me with questioning sympathy in her eyes and even Blue has a bit of pity in his face.

I glare at them. "I don't need your pity."

And that's when my mentors are kicked out for 'overexciting the patient'.

* * *

The next day they're back again, this time with one other person in tow. He's thin, shorter than Blue, and balding. Greying too – the guy's probably in his sixties by now.

"Hello Bastin," I say when I see him, because no one in Seven doesn't know our most respected leader, at least by sight. We're still all on a first name basis, though that's only because no one can remember his last name anymore. Sometimes I don't think even he can.

Bastin smiles. "Hello Johanna. So, you're our newest Victor."

"What, really? I never would have noticed."

"Yes, she is always this bad," Blue says. "Well since she came out of the Arena, anyway."

Before I can respond, Bastin interjects. "So Johanna, I expect you're wondering why I'm here and not back in District Seven."

I hadn't, not till then. Bastin has this certain air around him that makes his presence here seem perfectly natural and almost expected. But now he's mentioned it…

"Well most of us come down to the Capitol even when we're not mentoring. It lets us catch up with friends from other Districts and tend to… other appointments. Blight and I are staying in our quarters in the Training Centre – they're in areas the tributes can't get to. We can show you if you like."

I don't really care what I'm doing as long as I can get out of this Snow-endorsed white room with its boredom and Capitol-clone nurses, so I agree. It turns out the mentors came down to pick me up and bring me back to level seven – I've got a clean bill of health and the Games recap is scheduled for tomorrow.

So for the rest of the day Bastin, Willow and Blue show me around all the parts of the Training Centre I never knew existed. There are the Victors' quarters, which I won't use for a few years and are far larger than the tribute half of the building.

"Because in Districts like One or Two you're going to get quite a few people living here at any one time," Willow explains. "We all have an apartment in the city, of course, but most people can't stand the places."

"Can't say I blame them," Blue mutters.

Then there's the rabbit's warren of rooms and corridors down in all the basements. You practically need a ball of string to navigate the place.

"What are all these rooms for?" I ask.

"Storage, mostly," Willow says. "For equipment they're not putting in training this year, that sort of thing."

"District Three's managed to get permission to convert one into a sort of workroom, I know that much. I think District Five tried to do the same, but I have no clue about how successful they were. A genetic laboratory is a bit harder to build than an electronics storage space," Bastin adds. "And then there's the Victors' gym, which is officially for all of us but has really been taken over by District Two."

"I think they're just leftovers from what this building used to be before the Rebellion."

We all look at Blue, who shrugs defensively. "I've always been interested in architecture, okay? You can tell these parts of the building are older than the rest, and meant to be sturdier as well. Maybe they were meant to be some sort of a bunker."

"Yeah, but why would they leave them here? They don't need them as part of the Training Centre."

"The Games were put in a few years after the Rebellion, remember? They wouldn't have had the time to. They wouldn't have even had the time to build this building, especially with a few years of missing resources. That's the whole reason they didn't do it straightaway – I bet Arenas take more than a year to build."

For the first time since I've met him Blue sounds like he knows exactly what he's talking about. You can see this is his area of expertise, but what in Panem is a guy from District Seven doing picking up architecture?

I ask as much.

"It's his talent," Willow tells me. "We all have one – we need to, since we don't have much else to do all day. I garden, Blue designs buildings, Olga cooks – or used to. I don't think she has the energy for it now."

"Blight tastes wines," Blue smirks. I laugh, because really who in our District doesn't know of the exploits of our very own wannabe Haymitch Abernathy?

"And let me guess, Bastin spends all day trying to replace our mayor?"

Bastin laughs but doesn't answer.

Next I'm taken up onto the roof, and Willow shows off the garden she and a few other Victors help to maintain whenever they're in the Capitol. I spend what must be half an hour standing at the edge of the roof and looking down, just enjoying the feeling of having height paired with ground instead of the endless sky from the Arena.

Then comes what I've been dreading ever since Bastin told me when it would be – my Games Recap. The following morning my prep team drags me over-enthusiastically out of bed at an hour even I call ridiculously early and hauls me towards a delighted stylist.

I'm really not looking forward to what comes next, so probably take a bit too much delight in scaring off my prep team and now much less delighted stylist, all of whom spend far too long complaining about my 'mutilated hair' – and then end up cutting it so that it doesn't look anywhere near as ragged. But does it look like I really give a Snow about any of that?

Once I'm decked out in a dress only slightly better than anything else designed by my so called stylist, Willow comes in to give me a few words of advice.

"Don't show weakness," she tells me. "I know you're a good enough actor to pull it off. Just keep looking at then screen and don't show any of the Capitol how you feel?"

"How should I feel?" I ask, glaring at her.

Instead of being offended or taken aback, Willow just laughs. "See? You're getting the hang of it already."

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When I get into the room where they'll be screening the Recap I ignore Caesar and just sit down unceremoniously in my Victor's Throne, an elaborate wood carving that looks much more fragile than it is. The symbolism is hard to miss, even for the Capitol.

I remember what Willow said about not showing weakness, so I grit my teeth and answer a few of Flickerman's moronic questions before the anthem begins to play and the large screen lights up.

They show the Reapings first but not in much detail, focusing on each tribute for only a few seconds as music that's supposed to be suspenseful plays in the background. After District Twelve some kind of title screen comes up announcing to everyone that these Games are, indeed, the Sixty Ninth ones.

"This year there was a mixture of tributes chosen, from the promising" – the camera cuts back to Glint's reaping, Crow's reaping, and those of the other Careers tributes. Rowan's too. "To the less so…" My reaping first of course. The girl from Five, Abbie and Oran, a few of the most pathetic bloodbath victims.

Now come the chariot rides, and again the shots only glance off me, as if to establish that I exist but not to do much else. Maybe they're trying to keep the element of surprise my win created.

Next are interviews, interlaced with the training scores of the various tributes. Each gets a word or two but it's only those of us who made it into the Arena proper who get more. They've ignored District order for dramatic effect, because District Five and Crow both get their back to back 'kill the strongest people first' speeches before they cut to me and "He knows exactly what chance I have."

"These Games were also notable for the sheer number of alliances," the narration continues, and each of the three different alliances are focused on while suitable interview or Arena sound clips are played over shots of the members.

The bloodbath is played in full, of course. Once the parachutes deploy the camera follows the main group of tributes and views the much smaller secondary bloodbath. It's only then that they show what's happened to the few of us who've split off.

Rowan had been smarter than I had – well of course he had been; he always was - because he'd deliberately steered towards one of the rivers. His plan works and he manages not to get caught in any trees, even if he also has to cut his now sodden parachute loose. They contrast the shot of Rowan with a shot of me hanging in mid-tree, and immediately interpose that shot with one of me hiding while the Careers talk.

The rest of that day goes through relatively quickly. They show the remainder of the Unionists teaming up after the bloodbath, and show how the girl from Ten is killed trying to cross the lake area to where the rest of her still-living allies are gathered.

Then they show District Three teaming up after Oran saves Abbie from a rouge dagger in the back as they flee the scene of the second bloodbath.

"Alies?" Oran asks. "No point having the only even semi-intelligent people in this place separated, right?"

Abbie nods, and maybe it's just because I saw how she killed Oran later that I can see the contempt in her eyes, and the calculations. She agrees, but only because he'd be a useful human shield later.

Next the Unionists are shown, obviously later in the day. There's just the three of them still alive and they're plotting how to get rid of the Careers, because they figure the longer they leave it the less chance they have of making it out alive.

As District Eight says she has a plan, the shot cuts to a fire at night time. It looks deserted, but then the camera pans around to show the three Unionists hiding in the bushes around it. What'll happen next isn't rocket science, and indeed the second the Careers come to murder the tribute stupid enough the light a fire they're pounced on. The element of surprise helps the Unionists and between them Crow and District Five manage to take down the girl from Two and the boy from Four before being overwhelmed and killed.

The girl from Eight who came up with the plan sneaks off in the chaos.

Then it's the next day, and a little graphic announces that there are now nine tributes left. A few shots of Rowan and I are played to show we're still alive and on the move, but not many. I'm very glad of it; I don't need more reminders of Rowan than I already have.

The Careers are used to demonstrate the realisation that the islands move – it turns out that they left Amethyst back on guard with most of the supplies before being trapped on another island on the other side of the Arena from the Cornucopia. That's about as much as they're shown, though.

The more interesting thing of the day is Abbie and Oran coming across District Eight sleeping on the ground. They kill her and take her supplies, and then there's another little graphic stating that it's day three and eight of us are still alive.

Now's when they interview the families of the living tributes, so a few short clips are played. Then there are a few more shots of everyone on the move.

Now it's Abbie's turn to place the trap for Oran, so the camera focuses on that a little. It cuts to the next morning and plays the scene in full, complete with my holing up in the tree.

A few shots play of more people moving and almost falling to their dooms – and, in Abbie's case, deliberately using the parachute to move from island to island - before it's the scene I've been dreading.

I force myself to keep the same expression on my face as I watch Rowan fend off Two-ey with the axe he managed to pick up from the Cornucopia before the ground started cracking. He does well, but not well enough. Two-ey dies, but Rowan's wounds are great enough that he's easy pickings for District Four and Glint.

District Four wasn't lying. They hurt him before he dies, and seeing it rips my heart in two. Not reacting visibly to what I have to keep watching is probably the hardest thing I've ever done. I grit my teeth and force myself to keep staring at the screen, trying to stare unseeing, trying to keep tears from my eyes at the sight. Rowan of all people didn't deserve that.

But I manage to keep an uncaring exterior, barely. I hope. Good thing that scene's over quickly.

They don't show too much of my reaction, but they do show the hair cutting and the resolute expression on my face before cutting away to reveal District Four leaving Glint and finding her way towards the Centre Island. She finds Amethyst still at the lake and manages to win that fight before finding me.

All of my fight with her is shown in full, of course, complete with narration about how I've become a major player and how well I managed to dupe everyone.

Then comes the final battle, which is all shown from the moment the little island starts moving. I kill Glint, Abbie hits the forcefield at the bottom of the Arena, and I'm declared Victor of the Sixty-Ninth Annual Hunger Games.

The screen cuts to closing credits and the same image of the twenty four tributes they have in the City Circle, the one with only the Victor in colour.

Then, finally, not a moment too soon, the snow-endorsed thing is over and I can leave.


	16. Chapter 16

**And here we are towards the end. Once again, thank you to anyone who took the time to read and to review – I hope you've all been enjoying the story. This is far from the last you'll see of me on here though, never fear :)**

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They give me ten hours between the Games Recap and the interview, but I only manage to get a few fitful hours of sleep before the prep team comes around again. The Games plague my dreams; nightmares of falling and falling and falling like Abbie, guilt about becoming a murderer, and about how much easier killing Glint was. Most of all, though, my nightmares are about Rowan, and I see his awful death time and time and time again.

It must show that I'm barely sleeping, because Blue hands me a cup of coffee halfway through the prep team's work and orders me to drink it. Even looking at the coffee reminds me of Rowan. Tears almost come to my eyes; I order them away, and snap at Blue to mask the weakness.

He snaps back, and soon we have a nice little argument going. Until my terrified prep team sends for the stylist, who in turn has the sense to send for Willow, who comes in all guns blazing.

"What are you two doing?"

"She started it," Blue says, pointing to me.

Willow half sighs, half laughs. "Snow, Blue, how old are you? Five?"

"Four, actually."

I roll my eyes. "Aren't you the epitome of brilliant humour."

"Johanna, stop winding Blue up. Blue, stop letting her wind you up," Willow deadpans. "And come on; we'd better let the prep team work in peace."

They both leave, mostly to my relief. I've got a few hours worth of trying not to say something that could be interpreted as treason on national television ahead of me; I'd rather not deal with Blue. Or Willow and her unneeded sympathy.

After the prep team finishes up with me – and finishes praising each other over what they've done to me, and how 'absolutely fabulous' my hair looks now they've finished with it properly – my stylist comes in, does her usual insanely unoriginal approach and sends me off to my interviews via Willow.

"Just try not to antagonize Caesar Flickerman too much," my mentor warns me the second she sees me. "I know you can act, and it'll go better for you if you try to act civil. Please?"

I don't bother to dignify that with a reply and instead go straight into the main room of the District Seven tributes' area, where the interview will be held. It takes far too long to get everything organized, but finally Flickerman gives the go ahead and the cameras start rolling.

"Well, the ending of these Games was certainly unexpected."

I bristle slightly at the implications of what he's saying, intentional or not. "Not to me it wasn't."

Flickerman laughs. "Well said, Johanna, well said."

Once he sees that I'm not going to comment, he continues.

"You were obviously planning this right from the start. What was going through your head on Reaping Day?"

"That I wanted to come back home. At any cost."

"And so you did. Still think your plan was the right choice?"

I swear it's like the guy is trying to force me into committing treason by voicing everyone in Panem's opinion on the Hunger Games. I might have a habit of not thinking before I speak, but I'm not that stupid. And anyway, I quite like being alive – there is a reason I won the Games, and it wasn't a desire to commit suicide.

"Why wouldn't it be? I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Point taken. So how did you come up with your plan?"

I didn't, I think, but don't say.

"I'm not quite sure," I say instead. "It just popped into my head a few seconds after my name was drawn."

"Well that was quite a stroke of luck for you, wasn't it?"

"I suppose."

I know my abrupt answers aren't making this easy for him and I don't care. If I can't be my usual self to Flickerman then at least I can very well not be all sweet and helpful to him either.

"And did your cousin figure out what you were up to?"

At least they've been doing their research this time I think, probably a tad too bitterly.

"Instantly," I say, because there's no rule against lying in this thing. I'm going to have to when the subject of Rowan comes up – as it will, because of course my reaction in the Arena won't have gone unnoticed.

Slowly Flickerman questions me about every tiny little aspect of the Games buildup and the Arena itself. I suppose you need to when you've got three hours of television airspace to fill, but it doesn't make it any less annoying. I answer shortly and abruptly, try to avoid the biting sarcasm that's become my best friend for years, and most of all pray that they won't think to bring Rowan up.

But he does.

"So did your District partner know about your plan? I can't imagine it would be easy to keep secrets from people who live in the same area as you do."

Newsflash: Districts aren't that small. Well maybe Twelve is, but that'd be the exception rather than the rule. Even so I answer yes, because really, what's the point in lying.

"So did you two know each other before the Games? You seemed quite affected by his death."

"He was the only person in there who I'd said more than two words to, and we'd become friends." I'm not lying per say, just bending the truth. And I'm not giving the Capitol the satisfaction of knowing just what they've done, not ever. "Of course I was upset when he died. Who wouldn't be?" It takes all the self control I have not to add 'oh yeah: you,' onto the end of it.

Caesar Flickerman asks me a few more questions and then, thankfully, moves off Rowan into the rest of the Arena.

"You've made quite a dramatic change in appearance. What prompted it?"

"My hair was getting in the way."

This gets a laugh out of him. "Well, you certainly are practical, Johanna. Like how you won that last fight of yours – I believe I speak for the entire male population of Panem when I say it was almost painful to watch. Don't you think it was a bit of a low blow?"

"What, other than literally?"

Another laugh. I'm getting to be quite the comedian.

"Seriously though, why did you use such… unorthodox tactics?"

"Same as for the rest," I say. "I wanted to get home alive. At any cost."

* * *

Once my interview is – finally – over I'm bundled back into my room, where I'm given orders to amuse myself for a couple of hours before we get put onto the train back to District Seven.

"I'd get some sleep," Willow tells me, as usual trying to be helpful. "There are sleeping pills in the cupboard under the bathroom sink. One should do it for such a short time."

"I don't need them."

My mentor just looks at me. "Johanna, don't lie to me. You've burst a blood vessel in your eye from tiredness. Get some sleep."

She leaves the room, closing the door behind her. As much as I don't want to listen to anyone else, Willow's right. I do need sleep. Doubt I'll get any though, sleeping pills or no.

I strip out of my dress and go have a shower. The intention is just to wash off all the gunk my prep team's insisted on putting on my face, no matter how much I tell them I can't stand the stuff. I end up being there a lot longer than I'd planned, though; awful as the Capitol is, it has some upsides. Incredibly luxurious showers being one of them.

So for most of the time allocated to me I sit in the shower fiddling with all the different settings. Gives me something to do if nothing else.

Only then I start thinking, and that's when I'm glad I'm in the shower because I doubt even the Capitol would have cameras in here, and in the Arena will have been the last time I ever let anyone see me cry.

But cry I do, because it's the Snow-endorsed Hunger Games I've just come out of. I think I'm allowed, and better to just get the fit of weakness over with now. And once the crying's over I do feel better at least a bit.

Rowan's dead. He was tortured and I wasn't there to help. I was a moron to let myself get that close to anyone else, but I've learned my lesson. Vince stays, because he's Vince, but no one else will. Getting close just leads to pain.

That doesn't bring Rowan back, and try as I do to distance myself from him his death still hurts. It shouldn't – I've avenged his killing, I've won the Games for him – but it does. Doubt he'd want me to keep moping like this, but I do, and think I will for quite some time.

But as awful as death is, at least I've dealt with it before. The killing – now that's different. I'm a murderer now, and that fact scares me a lot less than it did when I puked up the contents of my stomach after killing District Four. I might have been guilty, but then I went and killed Glint effortlessly anyway. Almost in cold blood, too.

What does that say about me? I was never a nice person, but at least I wasn't a killer. I am now, and I don't care, and that scares me so much more than just the killing bit does. I've killed, twice, and know I won't hesitate to again.

Johanna Mason, Hunger Games Victor. I'm quite attached to being alive, thanks, and being alive meant being a Victor. But the title doesn't sound anywhere near as it did anymore.

So I sit in the shower, and let the water hammer into my shoulders, and let my mind wander back to my Games. Which are over now. They're over, I've won; and it's like I still haven't grasped it and what it means yet. Or maybe I just don't want to – being rich loses a lot of its appeal once you've been in and out of an Arena to get there.

My mind conjures up images of blood and death and never-ending falls, and I sit there and let the water soothe me into almost some sort of trance. Which is broken when someone – probably Blue, by the impatience – raps loudly on the door of my room.

"Hurry up Mason," he yells. Yeah, definitely Blue.

So to spite him I stay in another ten minutes before getting out and getting dressed. Maybe it's petty, but who said I wasn't? Anyway, Blue is just so fun to wind up.

He glares at me once I meet up with the others.

"What took you so long?"

"Stuff," I say. "Anyway, it wouldn't kill you to wait. The star of the show can't be rushed."

Blue snorts. "Don't get cocky."

"What, jealous that I'd have more of one than you?"

His hands clench into fists. "Watch it, Mason. I'm still bigger than you, and a Victor too, remember?"

"Oh yeah? I bet I could take you, grandpa."

"You want to try?"

Willow steps between the two of us. "I swear, you two are worse than children. Don't start anything, either of you. Or do you want me to get Bastin involved?"

And my mentor might be far too nice for her own good, but she's _scary_ when she gets an idea into her head, and no one in District Seven ever wants to get Bastin annoyed, not even his colleagues, so Blue cools it and I do too.

"Good. Now you can keep it that way until we get back to District Seven. Then you won't have to talk to each other if you don't want to. Now come on, children – the train awaits us."

"Children?" Blue mutters. "Who you calling a kid?"

"Those who act like them. Shut up and come on."

And surprisingly enough, Blue obeys without a fight.

* * *

The train ride back to Seven is peaceful enough, I suppose. Willow must have told Bastin how much Blue and I manage to piss each other off just be being in each others presence, because whenever the two of us are in the same room one of the other two is there as well.

Willow tries to recruit Blight, who I only meet on the train, to her cause as well. Unfortunately the one thing Blue and I can agree on is our shared contempt for our District's token drunkard, so her plan ends up backfiring dramatically.

It's fun annoying Blight for a while but he's far too easy bait, being completely off his face when the train ride starts and collapsing a few hours into 'lets make sure Blue and Johanna don't kill each other' duty. I go over and give him a tentative kick in the side, and the Victor just groans and rolls over.

"Even Chaff and Haymitch refuse to associate with him," Blue tells me, grinning at the sight of his unconscious colleague. "And that is the saddest you can go, let me tell you."

After that the two of go our separate ways, and I try to get some sleep. Soon it's pretty obvious that that's not going to happen; I give up on that option and head to where the television is on the train instead. I give up on that about the time I realise that there's nothing on but shots of my Games, which I'd really rather not watch.

Then finally we get back to District Seven. Back home.

The cameras flash as I step off the train, flanked by Willow and Blue and followed by Bastin and a hurriedly-revived Blight. Olga Stevens is there to meet us on the platform, leaning heavily on her walking stick. Good thing we've got a new Victor this year, because our oldest one looks like she's going to end up on the wrong side of the tree any second now.

All six Victors together. It makes for a rather picturesque scene really; the cameras lap it up. But I don't care. I'm scanning the crowd waiting at the platform, searching for a familiar face.

I see a family huddled together, two parents and a boy. The boy's thirteen or so and the splitting image of Rowan. This must be his family, I think, swallowing down a lump in my throat at the sight.

Then I see a familiar twelve year old, all wide grin and green eyes and black hair. Vince.

And just for a few seconds, despite everything that's just happened, despite thoughts of Rowan still in the back of my head, I'm happy.

I'm back. I've made it. I'm home.

**End of Book One**


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